Don't Close Your Eyes
by ErinWrites
Summary: While on a hunt, Dean is plagued with a biblical disease that works to kill you from the inside out. It takes your memories that are considered your most painful or remorseful ones, and it forms them into vivid nightmares that will result in your death through dreams. Set in mid-Season 9, after Gadreel is expelled from Sam, and after Dean receives the Mark of Cain. No slash.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The night was pitch dark. No stars or moon shone through the thick blanket of smoky gray clouds cloaking the sky. In a particular alleyway, the garish graffiti that decorated the walls was almost unseen, engulfed by the overwhelming blackness. A rusted pipe was leaking slightly, the steady drip-drip of the water accompanied by the rustling of rogue, dried leaves billowing down the cement walkway.

Other than the minuscule noises of alleyway, the night was dead silent. It was almost as if life had been put on hiatus for a moment, as if the clock had stopped. Not a single living soul shifted in their reveries. Some may have considered this quietude peaceful, because, truthfully, it was. But there was something ominous about it...a looming threat, dark and treacherous. Something was off, and most anyone could detect that a deplorable incident was about to occur.

Then, suddenly, the foreboding tranquility was broken. Life once more commenced, caused by one human being. She traipsed into the alleyway, watchful and observant, her eyes wide with awareness. Her slender form pressed itself against the wall, concealing herself from passersby. Her right hand slipped into the interior of her fitted black leather jacket, reaching for something. Just before she withdrew her hand from her coat, her eyes flitted suspiciously from left or right, making certain that she was, indeed, alone.

Apparently satisfied, her gaze returned to her hand as she removed it from her jacket. And she was grasping something...something long, slim, and glinting silver, the only light in the otherwise dark and lonely world. It was a knife. Not just any ordinary, run-of-the-mill pig-sticker, it was a blade. A very special blade. The girl ran her fingers lightly along the edge, a sinister smirk forming on her lips. Using her free hand, she pushed her long, thick brunette hair back behind her shoulders, and clutched the knife's hilt until her knuckles turned white. As terrifying as she was herself, there was a subtle hint of apprehension in her stance that could vaguely be noticed by someone vigilant.

The girl remained breathtakingly still, tense and alert, as if she were waiting for something...some _one._ Her eyes never strayed from the darkened street, as if they were focused on one specific point in the universe. Suddenly, a rustling of what could be described as wings, sounded, and the girl stiffened, her body trembling slightly. Unexpectedly, the irises of her brown eyes began to glow, their shade turning to a luminous silvery-gray color.

"You are not to be harmed, child," The silky, collected voice sounded, its tone reassuring, yet austere. "Unless you attempt to harm one of us." A tall figure stepped out of the shadows, his face calm and his expression serene. He could clearly see the blade clutched in the girl's hand, but he seemed unfazed, as if he had dealt with situations such as this before.

The girl appeared confused, yet nevertheless determined. She then finally spoke. "Why?" The inquiry was almost uttered as if it were a statement, her words rough and expressionless. "Why spare me? I'm an abomination to your kind, as you dickbags put it." Her body stiffened as she realized the consequences she could receive for her spiteful words.

"You have angel blood flowing within you, sister," The man responded, his words soft and revealing no anger. "Yet you are still a human being. You are unique, child, and you show great potential. But if you cross our boundaries one too many times, we shall be forced to eliminate you." His voice sounded almost as if he would deeply regret it if that ended up to be the case. "I do understand your distrust. Your kind is rare," He continued. "Nephilim are considered abominations in every angel's mind. Yet we only harm those who do great harm to us or humankind."

She paused as she listened to his words, clearly cautious now. Her grip on the blade was still tight, but she appeared as if she were rethinking her decision. But when the angel dared to call her "sister", it seemed as if something inside her snapped. She tensed up once more, barely allowing him to finish his sentence, squaring her shoulders and advancing towards him. "I am no sister of yours," She snarled. "And I never will be, no matter what you say." Before the angel had a chance to reply, she lunged forwards, her angel blade aimed high.

The angel made no move to sidestep or avoid the slash, but just as the girl was about to stab at him, he momentarily disappeared. The girl whirled around, finding the him standing behind her with a rather melancholy look on his face. "I warned you of what would happen if you crossed our boundaries," He said to her. "And I am sorry for what I am about to do." He then lifted his hand slowly, almost ceremoniously, and began to lay it down on her forehead.

"Not so fast," The Nephilim replied, unfazed by the hand hovering above her forehead. He paused, confused by her words. She threw down a match, and a ring of fire lit up around the angel. He stumbled back away from the flames, an expression of pure shock on his face. He looked up at the Nephilim, and she lifted her chin, a sinister smirk forming on her lips.

"Well, I guess the abomination wins."


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

 _"I can give you the Mark, Dean, if it's what you truly want."_

That one sentence would change Dean Winchester's world forever. He wasn't aware of it at the time, nor was he for months after. But he would be. Sooner or later, he would realize the life-changing impact that Cain had inflicted on him. Just one motivation would force him to become a ' _full-out, foaming at the mouth, maniac'._

But Dean hadn't thought about the consequences of receiving the Mark. He hadn't recalled what the Mark had turned Cain into...a Knight of Hell. And not just that. But their leader, their father. It was in the heat of the moment when Dean took on the burden, compelled by his pure hatred for that one Knight of Hell. The only thought that was running through his brain…

 _Kill Abaddon...kill Abaddon...kill Abaddon…_

If Dean had been aware of the consequences when he was faced with the choice of taking on the Mark, most people who know him from the inside out would agree that he would have accepted it anyway. If you had to choose one word to describe Dean Winchester, it would be loyal. Loyal to his family, and also loyal to humanity. And he would sacrifice anything to save them...even his own sanity.

His brother, whom Dean has sacrificed so much for, would probably not take on the Mark. Sam was loyal, of course, as much as his older brother. But he was more logical, he didn't jump right in without surveying the possible outcomes. If it had been to save Dean, then he would have immediately accepted the burden. But to kill a Knight of Hell, he would not have taken the risk.

So, was Dean doomed? I suppose that's for fate itself to decide.

* * *

 _"Your spell brought you to the source of the Blade's power," Cain explained. "Me." When the retired Knight of Hell had pulled up his sleeve to reveal the burn mark on his right forearm, Dean hadn't known how much that same Mark would destroy him. How could he? He hadn't even been aware of what it was. But the minute he saw it, even before Crowley, the King of Hell, formed the cross over his heart, he knew it was special, and not in a good way._

 _"Really? Now?" He said in response to Crowley's religious actions. The demon gave him a look of pure exasperation and surprise, as if he thought Dean should have known what the burned symbol was._

 _"It's the bloody Mark of Cain," Crowley hissed out, his eyes clearly displaying fear. Dean couldn't understand Crowley's behavior. From the minute he realized they were dealing with Cain, the father of murder, he'd been acting utterly paranoid. In a way, it was unnerving, the King of Hell being frightened of something. But the King of Hell being frightened of another demon...that was worse. But Dean wasn't afraid. At first, maybe he was a little nervous, but all Cain had proved himself to be was a coward who shied away in the face of murder._

 _Retired. That's what Cain called it._ More like candy-ass. _Dean thought sourly as he recalled the events from the past few hours. The friggin' dude didn't do jack squat. All he wanted to do was sit around in his backwoods cabin and carry out his moronic hobby of bee-keeping. For a while, Dean was almost unconvinced that this was_ the _Cain that the Bible talked about._

 _"From Lucifer himself," Cain added on to Crowley's statement. "The Mark and the Blade work together. Without the Mark, the Blade is useless..." The minute Dean heard those words uttered from the Knight's mouth,_ _he knew that he was doomed. He wasn't sure how, but it was for certain that he was._ _"It's just an old bone." Cain finished._

 _"A bone?" Crowley inquired._

 _"The jawbone of an animal," Dean guessed, thinking rapidly. "The jawbone you used to kill Abel because he was God's favorite." That was always the story, wasn't it? Two brothers who loved each other, then turned against each other. First, Michael and Lucifer, and now Cain and Abel? Dean was getting head spins from the similarities to him and his brother._

 _"Abel wasn't talking to God," Cain retorted, defensive. "He was talking to_ Lucifer. _Lucifer was gonna make my brother into his pet. I couldn't bear to watch him be corrupted, so I offered a deal...Abel's soul in Heaven for my soul in Hell." Dean couldn't help but think back to the time when Sam had been Lucifer's true vessel. He had been so opposed to Sam's suggestion about allowing the fallen angel to possess him, even though it had been for good reason. But he said nothing, no use pointing out even more likenesses between them. "Lucifer accepted," Cain continued. "As long as I was the one who sent Abel to Heaven. So, I killed him." Dean was internally shocked by how casually Cain spoke those words. In a way, it was upsetting. "Became a soldier of Hell...a Knight."_

 _"And Lucifer ordered you to make more." Dean finished for him. It had been easy enough to predict that._

 _"My Knights and I..." Cain trailed off, appearing as if he were reminiscing. "We did horrible things...for centuries. Bringers of chaos and darkness." Dean stole a glance warily at the Mark, his heart pounding._

 _And, then, suddenly, it was as if time flew by. Cain's voice once more sounded, but he wasn't continuing with his history lesson. Instead, he spoke directly to Dean. "I can give you the Mark, Dean, if it's what you truly want."_

 _"What are you talking about?" Dean asked cautiously, his heart pounding even harder. What was Cain playing at?_

 _"The Mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy..." More and more of Cain's words to him raced through his mind. "I felt connected to you right from the beginning...kindred spirits, if you will. You and I are very much alike..." Dean felt overall confused. How was this happening? "You never give up on anything, do you?" Cain's voice was flying by so fast that Dean barely had time to register what he was saying. He only caught a few sentences. "You have to know with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost."_

 _Dean felt a hand grasp his forearm, and when he looked down, he was holding Cain's as well. A sharp pain spread into his fingertips and sidled up his arm. An array of red veins traveled upwards, and Dean gritted his teeth. His gaze flitted back to his forearm, and shock hurtled through him at the sight his eyes were greeted with. A mark, burned into his arm, exactly the same as Cain's. He stole a glance up at Cain, gasping._

 _He was cursed with the Mark of Cain. There was nothing more he could do about it. What he did have to do was find Abaddon...and he would kill her if it was the last thing he ever did._

* * *

There was a pounding.

An intense pounding that seemed as if it would never cease. _Pound. Pound. Pound._ It rattled in Dean's mind, and his head spun. What was that noise? "Dean!" A familiar voice called. He heard the sound of something that could be described as a door being opened, and he immediately started, his eyes flying open as he jerked upwards, gasping. Sam stood in the doorway, a concerned look on his face. "You okay, Dean?"

"I'm...uh...fine," Dean lied shakily, his heart galloping in his chest. The dream was still fresh in his mind, and a cold sweat soaked his body. He was trembling, and he could feel a slight pain throbbing dully from the Mark. He resisted the urge to clutch the forearm which held it...no use making Sam more suspicious than he already was.

His younger brother was watching him silently, a deep, worried crease between his brows. But he said nothing, ever compassionate to Dean's internal struggles. Whenever Sam was aware that Dean was hiding something, he never pushed him. Mainly because he knew that no matter what he did, Dean wouldn't crack. But also due to the fact that he was respectful to his brother's decisions to protect him from whatever he was hassling with.

"Well, uh..." Sam trailed off, unable to think of a good line to brush off the fact that he had realized Dean was shaken. So, he simply continued with what he had originally come in to tell his brother. "Meet me in the library, okay? I think I found a possible case. Sounds like our kind of thing."

Dean nodded, still breathing heavily. It was clear that he was attempting to conceal his discomfort from his brother, but Sam wasn't fooled so easily. Nevertheless, he kept his mouth shut about the subject. He lingered awkwardly for a moment, watching the elder Winchester with unease. After a minute, he backed out of Dean's room and shut the door.

Sam's mind was racing, struggling to uncover the mystery. What could possibly be troubling Dean? His thoughts immediately directed towards the Mark of Cain. _No._ He told himself immediately after. They couldn't let the Mark overshadow any other coherent thought in their minds. But a small voice inside his head said otherwise. The Mark was an ancient, biblical curse, and Sam was preparing himself for the worst after Dean took down Abaddon. Yet the question was...what could the worst be? Could Dean really turn into a rabid murderer? Blood boiling and all? Sam couldn't help but attempt to refuse to think that way, but he knew for a fact that he had to be ready.

The minute the door clicked shut and Sam disappeared back into the bunker, Dean let go of his act. He fell back onto the bed, grasping his forearm and fingering the Mark of Cain with his thumb. He couldn't let go of the image of Cain inside his mind. The intensity of his stare burned in his brain. _I felt connected to you right from the beginning...kindred spirits, if you will. You and I are very much alike._ His words echoed in Dean's head. Was it really true? Something inside Dean told him that it was undeniably accurate, and there was no escaping it.

After a short amount of time, he mustered the strength to sit up. The Mark had ceased its throbbing, but Dean still recalled the sharp, continuous pain it had emitted while he was asleep. His mind was racing, that one obsessive thought once more entering his brain. _Kill Abaddon._ He was going to find that bitch, take her down, and murder her. It was almost a type of ecstasy he took pleasure in nowadays...envisioning Abaddon's face in his mind...the shock of finally being defeated. Because she _would_ be defeated. Dean would make sure of that.

Fully revived by the image of Abaddon's traumatized expression super-glued into his brain, Dean stood with forceful determination. That tomato-headed bitch was going to bite the dust if it was the last thing he did. He curled his fists, a rather sinister smirk forming on his lips. Without another glimmer of weakness, he strode from the room. It was one of those rare moments where he was proud to be possessing the Mark of Cain. But, still, Cain's words continued to haunt him internally...like a persistent, unrelenting whisper in the back of his mind. _You have to know with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost._ What could that possibly mean? What was this so-called "great cost"?

But Dean refused to dwell on the inevitable. Although he couldn't help but brood over the countless possibilities of Cain's warning, he wasn't going to lose sleep over it. He was the type of man who lived in the moment...he would deal with it when the time came. And hopefully that time would be after he ganked Abaddon. Because that was his main priority, no matter the penalty.

When Dean walked into the Men of Letters' library, Sam couldn't tell whether Dean had deliberately altered his personality, or if he literally had changed. Because this was not the same man that Sam had walked in on in the bedroom. Nonetheless, he remained silent. He couldn't help but study his brother, looking for signs of discomfort or forced relaxation. Dean spoke first, seemingly attempting to break the awkwardness of the situation.

"Hey," He said, striding to the table and plopping down in the chair across from his brother. When Sam didn't reply, he frowned. "What's this case you found?" He pressed on, gesturing to the laptop. Sam turned his gaze back to the screen and scanned it briefly before flipping the computer around so Dean would be enabled to see it.

"Three victims in the last week. All found with savage wounds, most likely inflicted with a knife," Sam paraphrased while Dean read through the article. His brother looked up at Sam, his expression clearly saying; _'What's the big deal?'_ "It doesn't seem like much, but torture is rather old-school. That tactic screams demon or angel right there."

"Oh, really?" Dean scoffed, slamming the laptop screen closed. "So we're going to drive twelve hours just to check the crime scene for sulfur and whatnot? Sounds like some psychopath killer, if you ask me." Dean's voice was inappropriately irritated in Sam's honest opinion. "Waste of time. The police will take care of it. Anyway, I've gotta wait for Crowley to ring in. King Douchebag's searching the deepest oceans for the Blade." There was a pause before he spoke again, half to himself. "If his mission weren't so damn important, I'd ask him a favor... _drown."_

Sam didn't have the grace to even smirk. There was something off about his brother. "Dean, what's up with you?"

Dean looked up at Sam, his face plainly exhibiting vexation. "Nothing's _'up'_ with me," His tone faltered only the slightest, something that only Sam would be able to observe. But when Dean noticed his brother's skeptical look, he rolled his eyes. "Dude, seriously. Let it go." Sam knew for a fact that Dean wasn't into the _'touchy-feely'_ crap, so he didn't push it. Instead, he opened the laptop again. Immediately, Dean emitted a scornful huff, but said nothing.

"Don't be such a downer," Sam chided roughly. "And you didn't read the entire article." He tapped a point on the screen. "There's a witness...claims that the assailant had some crazy superhuman abilities."

Dean scoffed, but he no longer sounded as if he were ridiculing the idea. "What? So now we're dealing with Superman? Really, Sam?"

His younger brother let out a chuckle, but he was not about to dismiss the case. "Maybe. But I'd guess it's _our_ kind of Superman. It's something, Dean. And we might as well make ourselves busy while Crowley's in the wind."

Sam had a good point, Dean had to give him that. But he couldn't help but regard a typical case as a waste of time. He considered pinpointing Abaddon's location a better way to spend every precious minute of his. "Look, Sam, I don't know..." Dean trailed off, torn. He wasn't sure how long it would be until Crowley found the Blade, but that certainly didn't mean it wouldn't be soon.

"It may be worth it, Dean," Sam protested, interrupting his statement. "The least we can do is check it out." Dean let out a deep sigh, but after a heartbeat, he nodded reluctantly, obliging to his brother's reasoning.

"Okay," He said finally. An uncomfortable pause ensued, and Dean pushed back from the table before climbing to his feet. "I'll be in the car." As he strode to his room to throw a few things in a duffel, he couldn't help but question his decision. A nagging voice still whispered in the back of his mind, pushing him to abandon the case, trying to convince him that Abaddon was more important. But even if she was, Dean wasn't going to relent.

Because he knew...a regular, stereotypical case could involve anything.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Dean really wished Sam hadn't dozed off. If he hadn't, it wouldn't be just him, the Impala, and...his thoughts. Sometimes Dean craved for the inhuman ability of literally wiping your mind clean of any shadowing doubts and musings. But unfortunately, that was simply out of the question. Cain's words still echoed in his brain, even though he was wide awake. They came one after the other, clogging Dean's mind, and therefore ceasing his capability to think rationally.

He also wished that Sam had told him before they'd gotten on the road how long the ride would be. He'd been driving nonstop for about three hours now, and he still had quite a few left. But there was no way in hell that he was going to be behind the wheel for the entire time. He would tolerate the gentle hum of the Impala's engine and flow of his thoughts that constantly haunted him for as long as he could manage. But when he couldn't stand it anymore, he would force his younger brother to switch places with him.

 _You find the Blade, kill Abaddon, but make me a promise first. When I call you...and I will call you...you come find me and use the Blade on me._

Those were among the last few words Cain spoke to Dean before he sent them away. He had then murdered every single demon who had been trying to attack them. _The_ Cain, the Father of Murder, had saved him and Crowley from disaster.

 _The Mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy._

Dean pushed the thought away and cast a glance at his sleeping brother. Sam was leaning against the passenger door of the Impala, mouth slightly open, with each exhalation fogging the windowpane.

Dean sighed, turning his gaze back to the road that lay before him, the asphalt seemingly endless, spanning out for miles and miles. He could only imagine what could be going on inside Sam's mind. He'd forgotten what normal, or at least, a hunter's normal, felt like ever since he took on the Mark. His brother was content, his life was ordinary, standard, what a hunter's life should be like. Dean yearned for that, but the Mark would not allow it.

* * *

After he had been driving for five hours, Dean began to consider waking his brother to switch places with him. He was terribly bored of the drive, and weariness beat down on him like intense rays of the sun. Not to mention, Cain's voice in his mind was like a broken record, repeating endlessly without showing any sign of relent.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, Dean swerved to the side of the road and stopped the car. While opening the driver's door, he swung his free arm across, striking Sam in the chest. His brother jerked in surprise and shot upwards. Before he could question him, Dean spoke. "Get out, you're driving." His statement was blunt, yet it appeared to satisfy Sam...to a point.

"We've been on the road for five hours, Dean," he said slowly, glancing up from his watch while climbing out of the car. He stared at Dean from across the top of the Impala, and continued when his brother failed to reply. "You can usually keep going for...twelve, thirteen hours." Sam was unbearably confused, not to mention, exhausted. He'd stayed up half the night searching for cases. It was a usual occurrence for him, but that didn't stop him from being fatigued the next morning. But he wasn't sure Dean would be too sympathetic, judging by the strained expression he wore.

"Yeah, well, times change," The retort was weak, but Dean was too tired to care. "Hurry up," he added, giving his brother a small shove to get him walking. Dean slipped into the passenger seat gratefully, watching Sam head to the driver's side. His head was pounding tenaciously, the never-ending throb triggered by the Mark of Cain...his burden. But Dean didn't exactly consider the physical Mark what was causing him such perturbation...it was more of the threat that consistently shadowed his mind, disrupting any other coherent thoughts…

 _You have to know with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost._

As his brother started up the engine and continued down the road, Dean leaned his forehead against the window. The cool glass felt good against his skin, but it didn't relieve his thoughts. _The Mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy._ He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that, by some miracle, his worries about the Mark would dissipate. He relaxed in the seat, willing himself to slowly drift away.

But sleep never came. At least, it was like it didn't. Because it felt so... _real_. It was the first time he had the dream.

The dream that loomed over him months on end, a constant taunt.

* * *

He was on his knees, the fingers on his right hand clasped around the hilt of a knife. When his eyes flickered downwards, Dean realized that the blade he held so tightly was dripping with fresh blood.

Fear shot through him, and his gaze snapped up, surveying his surroundings in a panic. Decimated bodies were scattered around him, an look of terror frozen in the eyes that would never see again. Dean was immobile, too much in a shock to even muster the strength to tremble in his horrified state.

 _Did I do this?_

The thought felt painfully raw, as if he had someone stripped it from the innermost corner of his mind. "I...didn't mean to..." The desperate sentence escaped from Dean's mouth without him realizing it. Little did he know that those were the very same words that he would speak when this really did happen. Because it would, indeed, happen. It was inevitable.

And though he refused to believe it, somewhere in his brain he knew...it was impossible to overcome.

* * *

Sam couldn't help but note the discomfort in Dean's posture as he slept. His face was strained and his body was tense, which only worried Sam more. Dean was acting different than usual, more distant, confined to himself. Something was bothering him, and Sam had a sinking feeling that it was the Mark, slowly worming its way into his brother's mind. But no matter how bad it got, there was no way in hell that Sam was going to allow the Mark completely take control over Dean. He was going to find a cure once his brother ganked Abaddon. Hell, he'd do it before then in a heartbeat if Dean would let him.

For a moment, Sam considered waking his brother. But recalling how much sleep Dean had been losing lately due to searching for Abaddon, he decided against it. Dean wasn't a machine, he was just like any other human being. So although he did his best to conceal it, Sam could plainly see that he was exhausted.

And whenever his brother did sleep, it was good enough for Sam.

* * *

Dean began to tremble, feeling the blood from his victims trickle down his body, soaking his skin and staining his clothes. He didn't want this to happen...he was _not_ a killer. This wasn't supposed to be the end result of all of this.

All he wanted to do was find Abaddon and skin her ass.

There was no way in hell he was going to allow the Mark to do this to him. Yet something inside Dean told him that every ounce of strength he had inside his body couldn't fight it. It was just too strong. His grip around the knife tightened, his hand shaking with equal parts shock, sorrow, and...what was that last feeling? Dean struggled to pinpoint the name of this strange sensation. It seemed out of place in this situation, from where he knelt. And then it hit him...he knew what it was.

 _Acceptance._

* * *

Dean's eyes flew open, and he jerked upwards, gasping. The dream was still rolling through his brain, and along with it, the dreaded sensation that he had felt...acceptance. In his peripheral vision, he saw Sam cast him a concerned look. "Dean? You okay, man?" Dean took a deep breath as he realized he was clutching the forearm that held the Mark of Cain.

Immediately, he yanked his hand away. Reaching into his jacket, he found what he was looking for, a flask filled with whiskey, and pulled it out. He brought the rim to his mouth and downed a gulp of it, smacking his lips as the alcohol slid down his throat.

"Yeah, I'm fine," He lied smoothly, feeling the liquor making its way into his system. Before Sam had a chance to question him further, Dean continued. "How long was I asleep?" It was a genuine inquiry, the sky outside was now almost completely black, its color could be called a charcoal gray. The stars and moon were concealed behind a thick layer of clouds.

Sam's gaze lingered on Dean a bit longer than could be described as ' _normal'_ , but nonetheless, he replied to Dean's question. He snorted, focusing his gaze back on the dark expanse of asphalt before him. "Dude, you were _out._ I've been driving for about six hours." Sam glanced back to his brother, looking as if he were about to say something else. But before he had a chance, Dean responded.

"Dammit," Dean groaned, letting his head fall back against the passenger seat. "Sorry, Sammy. I'll drive for the last hour." What the hell was his problem? What happened to four hours? His younger sibling didn't reply, acknowledging Dean's statement by pulling over to the side of the road without a word of protest.

When Dean slipped back behind the wheel of the Impala, he swallowed another swig of whiskey. The liquid was strong, and he was grateful for that. But what he didn't realize was that the more he drank, the more intoxicated he got, which therefore made the voice of the father of murder in his mind even louder. But he truthfully still believed that the liquor muted the memories.

With Dean behind the wheel, slightly tipsy or not, they made it to their destination in a little under an hour. Neither brother said a word on the way, Dean kept his eyes on the road, and Sam kept his on the map.

When they finally rolled into Durham, North Carolina, Sam was half-asleep, slumped over the atlas book. As Dean turned into into the Blue Rose motel parking lot, he cast a glance at his brother, rolling his eyes. "Lesson learned," He said to him under his breath, opening the driver's door to head into the lobby. "Don't stay up half the night looking for jobs, geek-boy." Sam remained half-conscious, unaware of the fact that Dean had just addressed him.

But by the time he returned with their room key, his younger brother was up and shouldering his duffel. Sam tossed Dean his bag and they headed towards their room. It was decent, the wallpaper was yellowing slightly, but other than that, it was one of the better rooms they had stayed in.

"Not too shabby," Dean remarked as they threw their packs onto the beds. Sam nodded absently in agreement, sifting through his duffel bag for his laptop. "Okay, so I say we crash for the night, then we can do our suit-and-tie dance first thing." Dean suggested.

Sam once more dipped his head in acknowledgment, setting his laptop down on the table by the window and then collapsing onto his bed.

Dean smirked in amusement, watching his brother for a moment longer before turning back to his bed. Just looking at the mattress made his stomach churn, because he knew that if he fell asleep, more nightmares would rage beneath his eyelids. His latest one was still fresh in his mind, a continuous taunt. So he sat at the table and opened his brother's laptop, downing the rest of the whiskey.

He scanned the article on the tab that Sam had left open, re-reading it over and over again.

* * *

Under normal circumstances, he would have passed out after a while, but since he had slept for half the day, he was nicely tense and alert. Not that he needed to be. As the hours dragged by, Dean found that his mind was clearing, which was something he didn't want. The alcohol muddled his brain, which made him unable to think rationally about the Mark and Cain. Little did he know that the liquor actually influenced the memories to come forth.

But since he was unaware of that factor, he stood and marched to the small motel kitchen in which he had stowed the whiskey bottle. Instead of transferring some of the liquid to his flask, he grabbed hold of the entire thing.

In just two hours, he had the bottle drained of any alcohol. He had drank so much that he was unable to think clearly. _Damn it._ He thought, remembering the crime scene. He wasn't stupid, he knew he was drunk. It was going to be difficult to pose as a Federal Agent while wasted.

 _I can give you the Mark, Dean, if it's what you truly want._

"Son of a _bitch._ " He hissed under his breath, tightly squeezing his right fist and clenching his forearm. Would these damn voices ever shut the hell up? He felt unbelievably insecure whenever Cain's voice passed through his mind, loud and clear as a bell. He cast a glance at his watch.

Eight in the morning was just rolling by, and Dean sighed. They had reached the motel at around midnight, and his brother had driven for more than half the time on the way. He didn't want to wake Sam, who was lying passed out on the motel bed, having barely moved since they arrived. But there was a painstaking truth in the fact that they had to get moving on solving this case.

Dean eventually concluded that checking out the body and interviewing the witness was more important than stalling even longer. So, against his wishes, he reluctantly strode to Sam's motionless body and slapped his feet as he moved to his duffel bag. "Hey. Up and at 'em," He told him, sifting through his things in search of the suit he usually wore.

Sam grunted, sitting upright and watching Dean unearth the gray slacks and coat from his bag. "What time is it?" He asked, running a hand over his face wearily. Dean glanced at him to reply, but Sam didn't give his brother a chance to even open his mouth before he checked his watch. "Ugh..." He groaned, clumsily twisting around and connecting his feet to the floor. "Why'd you let me sleep so long?" He questioned, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"'Cause I'm awesome brother," Dean responded in a monotone voice, smirking.

Sam didn't answer, sitting with his elbows on his knees and rubbing his temple. "C'mon, man," Dean said, buttoning his dress shirt. "We don't have all day. Let's solve this case you snagged, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam replied, standing and making his way to his own bag. "You wanna divide and conquer?" He suggested, beginning to change. "I'll take the witness, you take the body?" Dean nodded in acknowledgment. Sam had good reasoning in this case...they could cover more ground if they split up. But then Dean paused, taking in the smug look on Sam's face, and he frowned suspiciously before realizing what Sam could be so complacent about.

"No." He said, grasping the situation. "The witness isn't—"

"Some hot chick?" Sam interrupted, smiling widely with triumph clear in his hazel eyes. "You guessed right. Her name's Gina Sullett." He couldn't wipe that stupid grin from his face, even though Dean probably wished he would. But, hey. It wasn't everyday that Sam was the one who got to hang out with the chicks. It was usually Dean, since he was... _older._

Dean stood in an awkward silence, mouth slightly ajar, while Sam stood by, smirking patronizingly. There was a pause before Dean spoke again, irritation clear in his voice. And all he said was one simple word. "Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam retorted, making use of their old catchphrase. Before Dean could say another word, he slipped on his suit jacket and fastened his tie around his neck. "You coming?" He asked as he opened the motel room door. "Or are you just going to stand there all day looking like an idiot?" With those words, he exited the room and headed out to the Impala.

Dean was left standing in the motel, holding his tie and looking like an idiot. But the minute Sam slammed the door behind him, he slipped on his tie and followed after Sam, muttering to himself. "Me the idiot? You're the...idiot." He'd always been bad at comebacks. He slid into the driver's seat and started up the engine. "Okay. I'll drop you off at the witness's house, and then go check out the morgue. I'll meet you back at Gina's, and we can head to the crime scene. Capisce?" He asked, glancing at his brother.

Sam dipped his head in acknowledgment, back to his all-business self. "Sounds good to me." He was busy flipping through the phonebook, searching for the witness's address. "Here we go." He told Dean the address and slammed the book shut. His head was reeling, wondering what Gina had seen that night in the alleyway. He couldn't help but think about how convenient it was that there happened to be a witness in a case like this.

Dean pulled up to the witness's house in a matter of minutes. Their motel was located in the smaller, more subdued, part of Durham, which was the area that Gina lived in as well. This factor happened to be to their advantage during their investigations, in case they had anymore questions regarding what she had been witness to. Sam slipped out of the passenger seat while Dean let the Impala idle on the curb. "I'll be back when I can," Dean said to his brother as he slammed the door. "Don't do anything... _too_ hasty."

Sam smirked as Dean pressed on the gas and continued down the road. He then turned to the simple, one-story house before him and headed up the walkway. Gina opened the door to him almost immediately, as if she had been expecting him, which he found rather peculiar. "Gina Sullett?" He inquired, giving her a brief once-over. She was pretty, he could give her that. Plain, no doubt, but still attractive. She nodded once, studying him suspiciously.

Sam smiled at her reassuringly and presented his fake Federal Agent badge for her to see. "Agent Frehley. I have a few questions involving the incident you witnessed two nights ago? May I come in?"

She studied the badge for a moment before dipping her head. "Of course, Agent," She responded, giving him a polite smile as she beckoned him inside. "I spoke to the police already," She continued, leading him down a dimly lit hallway to her brightly-lit living room. "I figured if the FBI got involved, they'd just read the police report." She sounded appropriately confused, and Sam couldn't blame her.

"Well, Miss Sullett, sometimes it's easier to get the answers in the witness's own words," He explained to her. She appeared as if she was satisfied by his answer, brushing her soft caramel-colored curls behind her shoulders. "Now, first things first, can you describe to me what you saw that night? Just go back to that moment _once_ more for me."

She smiled respectfully at him, before furrowing her brow. "It was really late at night. I was coming out of the bar near the alleyway when it happened. I heard screaming...so I went to check it out. I wanted to see if someone was in trouble. But...what I saw..." She trailed off, eyes widened as she recalled the events from that night. "It wasn't anything I could've imagined."

With a deep inhalation, she continued haltingly. "The attacker was this young woman...maybe in her mid-twenties? She was torturing this poor man, and whenever he tried to...you know, fight back, she threw him to the ground. Without _touching_ him." Gina looked utterly miffed. "And her eyes...they were _glowing._ This...grayish silver color, I..." She trailed off, slowly closing her mouth and narrowing her gaze. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"No," Sam assured her. "I don't." He didn't say much else, too busy digging deep into his mind, trying to figure out what the mysterious creature could be. He vaguely remembered Castiel saying something along those lines when he had been completing the Trials to close the gates of Hell. But he had been so delirious and focused on finishing his task that he couldn't recollect exactly what the angel had said.

"That's good," Gina responded, her voice strangely sinister. "I always love a man who respects what a woman says." He slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers, confused by her abrupt change of personality. And what he was greeted with caused his chest to lurch in shock. Gina's normally pale blue gaze was malicious, and when she blinked, her eyes flashed black.

She smiled in a disturbing way, her black gaze reflecting the ceiling light. "We're going to have so much fun, aren't we... _Sam?"_ Before he could make a move, she flicked her wrist, and he flew back against the wall.

His head slammed into the plaster, and he knew no more.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

The demon possessing Gina Sullett hummed aimlessly as she fastened the bindings around Sam Winchester's wrists. It had been almost too simple to take the hunter out. She suspected that his brother, Dean, wouldn't have been so easily fooled. But what did she know? She'd only heard stories about the two infamous hunters who had stopped the Yellow-Eyed Demon, the Apocalypse, the Leviathans...plus an entire list of other accomplishments.

Crowley had informed her of a few things...the weaknesses that he was aware of, their strengths. Most importantly, their biggest Achilles heel...each other. That was going to be a difficult aspect in her scheme, yet she would use it against them if she had to. But so far, her plan was working out perfectly. Crowley would be pleased.

Just as she was securing the ropes around his ankles, Sam began to stir. As he gradually came to, the demon grinned mischievously, delighted to see that he was awake. His hazel eyes slowly opened, and it took a minute for him realize where he was and what was going on. When he finally became aware of his situation, he struggled against his bindings, teeth clenched together.

"Morning, sunshine," She smirked vindictively, seductively stroking his jawline. He turned his head away in disgust. "My, my, my," She gushed. "Little Sammy Winchester. Isn't that _wonderful?"_ She cackled. "From what I've heard, your brother's the prettier of you two. But, _damn_ , you don't get enough credit. I suppose I'll have to see the pair of you together to make my final decision, hmm?" She emitted a low, rather malicious, sultry laugh.

"What do you want?" He growled, ignoring her words. His head was reeling. What the hell could this demon bitch be looking for him to do? The spot where his head had slammed against the wall was throbbing painfully, but he disregarded it, too concerned by the fact that he had been captured to care. He pulled at the bindings entrapping his wrists and ankles, wincing as the ropes burned against his skin at the friction.

"Cut it out, Sam," The demon warned, referring to his attempt at escape. She abandoned her facade for a split second. But, a second later, it returned, a peculiar mix of seduction and balefulness. It made Sam's skin crawl. "You Hardy boys are so easy to lure, did you know?" She chuckled devilishly. "You coax a case into forming, and the next thing you know, you two show up. Ha!" The interjection she let out was abrupt and violent, not exactly amused, but could be described more as satisfied or vindictively appeased.

"What...do you... _want?"_ Sam repeated, his statement this time more of a demand than a growl.

"All in good time, sugar," The demon purred. _"All in good time."_ She caressed his face fleetingly, her touch meant to be both mysterious and provocative. "Now, tell me, Sam, what condition is your brother in, hmm? I hear that he has acquired the Mark of Cain." Sam opened his mouth to shoot back an angry retort about how it was _her_ king who had influenced his brother to take on the Mark.

The demon cut him off with a dramatic, contemptuous wave of her hand before he could get word of scorn out. "Yes, yes, yes. I am aware that it was Crowley who suggested he take on the Mark," She continued, speaking the words that Sam had been meaning to say with a roll of her eyes. "So, I ask once more... _how is he doing?"_

"What do you think you're going to do?" Sam sneered indignantly, his hate for this demon bitch increasing more and more by the minute. "If you've got no reason for it, then why bother asking, huh? You black-eyed douchebags think you can just pry into anyone's business just because you're _demons._ Well, I've got news for you. _That's a lie."_

The demon's smug grin was wiped right off her face, and the complacency that had overruled most of her persona dissipated. She stalked towards Sam, a scowl now overtaking her expression. "You little _maggot,"_ She hissed out, her face just centimeters from his. "How _dare_ you speak to me with such insolence. I am one of Crowley's most trusted servants, which is more than you will ever be."

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, trying to uncover the secret for why Crowley would want to lure them to his minions. He opened his mouth to question the demon, but she spoke before he could say anything. "Dean, on the other hand, serves much better to my king. My task is to lure _him,_ not you. You are merely the one who will push Dean in our direction."

"That'll never happen," Sam responded, determined, yet he could hear in his voice the hint of desperation to believe his own words. "Whatever _'plans'_ you have for me, I won't carry them out." He struggled to make himself sound certain of himself.

He knew demons had their ways of making people do what they wanted, and it spanned from bribery to even possession. But he knew that persuasion wouldn't work on him. The only pawn that the demon could use that would have the ability to cause Sam to give in would be Dean. But he was clearly not an option, since he was the one that Crowley had the most interest in.

"We'll see about that, Sammy," The demon said, once more assuming her former persona. "But don't you worry. You won't remember a _thing_ after I'm done with you. I'll make sure of that." She giggled, her expression clearly saying that she knew something that he didn't.

Before he could even attempt to utter another word, she resumed her monologuing, which was really becoming a big pain in the ass for Sam. "You _really_ wanna know why Crowley wants Dean, Sam? Hmm? Okay. I'll tell ya. He's gonna kill him. Or... _you're_ gonna kill him. You just need a little _push,_ 'cause you clearly don't have the stomach to do it out of your own free will."

"Why does Crowley want my brother?" Sam snarled, his brows pulled together in a hate-ridden scowl. "Sure, they've been bromancing around the country for weeks now, but all Dean's been to him over that entire time is his servant. The only thing that Crowley wants him to do is kill Abaddon, which is why Dean took on the Mark." Sam was just rambling now, but he was willing to do anything to stall this bitch.

The demon chuckled darkly. "Once more, I repeat, sugar..." She trailed off, her smile wide and sinister.

 _"All in good time."_

* * *

Dean entered the morgue with an air of authority, making sure to lock the doors of the Impala before he walked away. No one was stealing his baby. Not today, not ever. He presented his fake Federal Agent badge to the morgue receptionist. "Agent Bonham, FBI," He told her, giving her a moment to study his badge before slipping it back into his suit coat pocket. "I'm here to see the coroner."

She gave him a nod of approval, and he was sent to the back to meet the coroner, a surly, middle-aged man sporting a constant glower. As he approached him, he once more presented his badge for the coroner to see. "Agent Bonham, FBI," He repeated his introduction. "I'm looking to see the body of the John Doe who was killed two nights ago."

The coroner dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Right this way," His tone plainly revealing that he was not as unpleasant as his facial expression suggested. Dean wasn't foreign with that, seeing everyday in the mirror that his own face usually looked like he'd swallowed something sour. But a lot of the time lately, he really was at least a little pissed off at something. As they walked, the coroner spoke along the way. "We performed an autopsy earlier yesterday afternoon," He told him. "The blade the John Doe was killed with went straight through his spinal cord."

"So you didn't find anything you didn't expect to?" Dean asked him. He wanted to be sure that the kill had been made by a knife, and only a knife. Because if that was the case, then the only supernatural beings that would be on the list would be angel or demon. He'd just have to look for any signs of sulfur at the crime scene when he and Sam checked it out later.

"Not a thing," The coroner confirmed, beckoning him into the wide, spacious room. It was noticeably colder, and the area smelled...clean. It wasn't a smell that you could easily label. "Oh, except for the fact that the guy's been dead for much longer than two days." He added dryly.

"How long has he been dead, then?" Dean inquired, furrowing his brow. That could possibly be a clear sign of possession. But by demon or angel, he couldn't be sure until he saw the body. And, still, then, he wouldn't be positive.

"Not sure. At least two weeks." The coroner moved to a certain drawer and tugged it open. He lifted up the sheet covering the body and pulled it down to expose the dead man. "Agent Bonham, meet our John Doe," The coroner deadpanned, gesturing to the corpse lying on the cold metal table. A prominent, deep knife wound went straight through his abdomen, complimented by an array of cuts and gashes that seemed to cover every part of his body. The man's cadaver was deathly pale and stiff, much more than a body of two days should be.

As Dean was closely scrutinizing the corpse, the coroner's cell phone rang. He looked at it fleetingly, and glanced up at Dean. "Uh, sorry, Agent, I gotta take this. You good here?" Dean gave him a polite nod and the coroner accepted the call, walking away. Dean continued to inspect the body, furrowing his brow as he realized something was on the back of the man's neck. He turned the head to the side and leaned down, picking up the substance with a gloved hand.

It was some kind of dark residue, crusty and dry from age, but it had clearly once been a liquid. After he had examined it closely, he decided it wasn't a big deal. For all he knew, it could be dried mud or something along those lines. He tossed it into the garbage can and cast another look at the body, biting his lip in thought. From the look of the cadaver, he couldn't determine if it was a vessel that had been possessed. But if it really had been, then who or what would have the power to kill an angel? A demon, he could understand, they were simple beings, and millions of them polluted the planet. But angels' abilities bypassed a demon's by far. They were much more difficult to kill.

He sighed, turning away from the body and stripping off the blue rubber gloves that he had been supplied with. He placed the sheet back over the body and pushed the drawer back into its compartment. Dean then headed out into the main office of the morgue and dismissed himself from the building. When he headed out to the Impala, his head was still reeling, struggling to uncover the mystery.

Was it possible that they weren't hunting a creature at all? If it had been a demon, it could have been a hunter who had taken matters into their own hands and ganked the son of a bitch. That was an idea, but Dean still had to take all of the possible options into consideration. If they really were dealing with a creature that had the strength to take down an angel, then that was bad. The kind of bad in Dean's mind that would be like walking into a bar and having chick in your line of sight turn away in disgust.

That was the worst kind, if you wanted Dean's opinion.

* * *

When Dean pulled up to Gina Sullett's house, Sam was waiting outside for him. Frankly, he was surprised. If it were him, and Gina was actually hot...damn, he wouldn't get out of that house even if someone resorted to brute force. When his brother climbed into the passenger seat beside him, Dean smirked. "Aw, Sammy. She wasn't interested, huh?" He prepared himself for an angry retort back, but none came. Instead, Sam gave him a blank, rather obscure look before speaking just one word.

"What?" His voice was vague and unfocused, and Dean frowned, all traces of amusement whisked away by concern for his brother. Something was off with him, anybody could easily realize that, even if they had no idea who he was. His hazel eyes were dull and confused, as if he were living half in reality and half in the dream world.

"Dude...what's up with you?" Dean asked slowly, bemusement riddling his tone. "What...did that chick drug you or something? 'Cause it sure as hell looks like she did." He was half-joking, yet he wasn't making that up. But then suddenly, Sam seemed to visibly come out of his trance. His eyes cleared and he blinked several times. It took him a moment to recall Dean's question and reply.

"What the hell are you talking about, man?" He asked, disgust evident in his voice. "I'm fine, dude. Seriously." Dean gave him a skeptical look, but he was relieved that Sam appeared to be back to normal. " _Seriously."_ Sam repeated, noticing his older brother's expression.

Dean put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "All right, all right, whatever," He responded dismissively, twisting the key and starting up the engine. "You just seemed a little out of it, okay?" He pressed down on the gas, heading down the road.

Sam didn't reply to his brother, finding no logical reason to. He did feel kind of off, and for some reason he didn't recollect actually walking out of Gina's house. He remembered interviewing her, and then, like magic, he was back in the Impala. Somewhere in his mind, he had a nagging feeling that something bad had happened while he was with Gina, but he couldn't recall what. He told himself that it was just his instincts jumping out of proportion and sat back in the seat.

He suddenly realized that his chest stung, throbbing painfully. Making sure Dean didn't see, he pulled down the left side of his shirt. Sure enough, a long, thin scratch sliced through his anti-possession tattoo, therefore ceasing its ability to prevent possession. A cold chill went through Sam's body and he blanched. What the hell happened in there? He felt an urge to alert Dean on the topic, but then he remembered how much pressure his brother seemed to be under lately. So he reluctantly kept his mouth shut.

"So?" Dean asked finally, breaking the awkward silence that had ensued between the two brothers. Sam quickly cast a glance at Dean, eyebrows raised in question and his heart pounding, hoping Dean hadn't seen him drain of color when he'd noticed the break in his anti-possession tattoo. "Gina," Dean explained when Sam gave him an inquiring look. "What'd she say about what she witnessed?"

"Oh." Sam responded, relieved. "Um, well...she said some pretty crazy stuff." He squinted, struggling to recall what the woman had said. For some peculiar reason, when he envisioned her face in her mind, a cold sweat began to form on his body. What could that possibly mean? It was also difficult to remember her words, like his mind was coated with molasses and he couldn't break through it to clearly recollect his memories.

Finally, her answers came to him, and he spoke them before they could slip out of his mind again. "She said that...that the person, a girl in about her mid-twenties, was attacking the victim. She said that whenever the guy tried to fight back, the girl threw him back to the ground without touching him." Sam's voice was incredulous as the full comprehension of the statement sank in.

"Telekinesis, huh?" Dean said dryly, sounding untroubled. "Interesting. What else did she say?"

"Uh..." Sam trailed off, thinking hard. "I think she told me that the girl's eyes were glowing. Some sort of grayish-silver color." He remembered his thoughts when he had first heard Gina's words. About how Cass had said something about a creature like that when Sam had been completing the Hell Trials from the demon tablet. Or had it been Dean who had told him that? He couldn't quite recall. Everything from when he started undertaking the Trials to expelling Gadreel was kind of a blur to him. Dean nodded at what Sam said, but he didn't seem to recognize the description. "What about the body?" Sam pressed.

Dean shrugged. "Well, at first glance, it'd be nothing special. Stab wound, straight through the spinal cord. But get this..." Dean said, glancing at his brother. "The dude's been dead for a lot longer than two days. The coroner said a week at least."

"So...we thinking possession?" Sam asked. It was the most logical reasoning for that type of incident to occur.

"That'd be my best guess," Dean confirmed, turning his gaze back to the dark expanse of asphalt that lay before him. The two of them fell silent after that, unsure of what to say to each other. Their relationship had been strained ever since Sam had found out Dean had tricked him into being possessed by Gadreel. But Sam had to admit that it was starting to get a little better. Rain began to streak down the windowshield, and Sam watched the small rivulets of water trickle down the clear glass pane aimlessly.

The crime scene was about twenty minutes away, on the other side of the city in a more secluded area. With Dean behind the wheel, they made good time. Dean knew for a fact that he and his brother probably looked rather suspicious walking around in an alleyway wearing Fed suits, but he didn't bother to sweat it. As they traipsed into the alley and ducked under the crime scene barrier, Dean's eyes were met with a gut-wrenching sight. "Dude." He said, his voice merely a hushed whisper as he attracted Sam's attention. When his younger brother cast a glance at him, he gestured to what he was looking at. Sam's eyes immediately widened in shock.

Angel wings. Large and stretching out several feet. Of course, they weren't _actual_ angel wings, but the remnants of them, burned into the pavement alleyway sidewalk. "It was an angel that was killed," Dean said finally, his eyes still locked on the ashes of the wings on the ground. "I guess that explains why the body was way more than two days dead."

Sam nodded in agreement, watching the steady trickle of rain begin to wash away the ashes. There was a long pause between the two of them as the news sunk in. And then Sam finally asked the question that was running through both of their brains at top speed. "What kind of creature could have the power to take down an angel?"

Dean shook his head like a dog, half in response to Sam's inquiry, and half due to the rain soaking his sandy hair. "I don't know, man," He admitted regretfully.

"But I have a feeling that it's not at all good."


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Dusk was falling around Castiel as he strode towards the old, rundown warehouse with slight trepidation, yet as always, unwavering determination. The fading sunset from behind him washed his trench coat-clad shoulders and dark hair in a dim golden light. But he didn't stop to take in the scenery, for he had a task ahead of him. He had heard about the incidents happening in North Carolina through angel radio. Unbeknownst to Sam and Dean, there had been several more murders that had not been discovered by the police. All of the fallen angels constantly chattered nervously through the mental link, fretting over the fact that they could be next on this mystery creature's list.

Cass had a sinking feeling he knew what it was that had tortured and murdered all of those angels. At first, he told himself that he was wrong. That Metatron, no matter how much of traitor he had turned out to be, had not lied when he had said that there was only one that existed on the planet. But as more and more kills occurred, Castiel had been forced to go with his _'gut feeling',_ as the humans described it as.

It was a Nephilim. He wasn't certain, but it was the best option he had. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he was exasperated that this was yet another thing to add to his plate. It was already overflowing since every fallen angel in the country was out for his head, blaming him for the fall. Nephilim were complicated creatures, the offspring of an angel and a human, often called _'the sons of God and the daughters of men'._ Castiel had killed one of their kind before, the one that Metatron had referred to as the only one on earth. Her name had been Jane. Try as he might, he would never get that one name, laced with guilt, out of his mind.

He stopped as he reached the warehouse. The building was rusted and aging, and dripping with moisture from the earlier rainfall. Castiel held out a hand, allowing a few droplets of water to splash onto his outstretched palm. He couldn't sense anyone inside the walls of the warehouse, but his separation from Heaven and, not to mention, the fall, had caused his angelic powers to wane considerably.

He pushed on the door leading into the warehouse and it creaked open, almost falling off its hinges. Castiel now stood in the threshold, his profile blocking the shafts of fading sunlight from view. The building was big, larger than he had expected, but its condition was exactly what he had anticipated. Where the floor should've been was only dirt and gravel, and the few windows that were there were soiled and clouded. Not a single soul could be seen from within the building. But Castiel still ventured in, his instincts on guard and his right hand clutching the hilt of the angel blade that was hidden in the folds of his trench coat.

Although his footsteps were light, they still echoed around the deathly silent warehouse. It was too quiet for Cass's liking. He strode further into the shadowed building, his instincts on edge and every muscle in his vessel's body tense and alert. The silence was now deafening, and Castiel tightened his grip on the blade. Perspiration was beginning to form on his palms of his hands, and he hastily wiped them off on his dress pants.

Perspiration...or sweat, as most of the humans called it, was a peculiar thing. In Castiel's opinion, at least. When he was completely connected to Heaven, he never perspired. He had done so whenever he was nervous or hot when he had been human, and now, as the stolen grace inside of him slowly burned away, he began to acquire more human physical traits. Since his palms were sweaty, Castiel assumed that he was nervous...because he didn't feel very hot.

At least he had a reason to be nervous. He had to admit that it would be quite unusual if he had nothing to have apprehension towards. Human feelings were something that Castiel had always been transfixed by. They were so pure, so genuine, so...unbelievably overwhelming at times. Castiel now had the ability to experiences these emotions. Sometimes, they were pleasant, while other times, they were...not so pleasant.

Castiel shook himself off, still baffled by how easily distracted he got from the thoughts flowing through his brain constantly on repeat. He was captivated by every sound, every sight, every single small detail that he become conscious of. Ever since he'd become human, his internal musings had become much more sharp and defined. Sometimes he couldn't help but lose himself in his mind, mystified by how deeply humans...and now _he..._ could think.

He was now well into the warehouse. The daylight had completely faded, and Cass could see the moonlight beginning to filter in through the dusted windowpanes. It created a faint silvery shadow on the dirt floor of the building. He was unnerved by the silence that continued on, and he paused, scouting the area with appropriate unease. When the result of his search turned out empty, he swiveled around while stowing his angel blade back inside his trench coat. There was no use in lingering when no one could be found.

And then he saw red. Not metaphorically speaking, but literally. The color blotted his vision, and he squeezed his eyes shut in surprise. When he opened them again, he realized that it wasn't just red. Orange, yellow, gold...it was fire. Shock hurtled through him and he stumbled backwards, eyes wide. Holy fire surrounded him in a perfect circle, the flames spitting and hissing with malice. He couldn't escape. There was no way.

When he disconnected his gaze from the fire, he was greeted by the sight of a young woman. She was dressed in menacing attire, her figure complemented by a dark, fitted leather jacket. Her thick brunette hair was let loose around her shoulders, flowing down in soft waves. When their eyes met, she smiled nefariously and her irises began to glow a silvery-gray color. Then she spoke.

"Well, didn't I catch myself a looker tonight?"

* * *

Sam stood in the motel bathroom before the mirror. He glanced behind him at the closed door warily and pulled down his collar to once more inspect the anti-possession tattoo. It appeared the same way it had from that start, except the blood was now dry and caking the skin around the scratch. Sam's heart was pounding in his chest, and he swiftly released his shirt, allowing it to conceal the tattoo from view.

What the hell had happened in Gina's house? They'd been in town for two days now, and the details were still fuzzy, as if someone had deliberately bleached his memories.

Could it have been what they were hunting? Trying to prevent them from being found? If this supernatural creature was on a killing spree with angels, then they must have some sort of grudge against those dickwads. What if it had been a demon? A cold sweat formed throughout his body, and he clenched his fists, unable to contain his anxiety. If it was a demon, why would it break his anti-possession tattoo? He had a bad feeling that he knew what it was.

 _Possession._ Most anyone would predict it, but he refused to believe it. He didn't _feel_ like anything was in him. And he knew what that felt like on account of the angel, Gadreel. But, then again, he was still open to possession, so he needed to do something about the tattoo. But what was there? Pretty much the only option he had now was to be ridiculously cautious, to make certain that he was not possessed. Also...he couldn't tell Dean. It was out of the question. His brother was going through enough, what with the Mark of Cain.

So Sam was forced to remain silent. Against his will, yes. But it was for Dean's sake. He briefly splashed his face with cold water and headed back out into the motel room. Sam paused by the honor bar in the corner that they had been lucky enough to receive and snatched a beer. "Hey," His brother called from across the room. "Grab me one of those." Sam obliged, and, upon nearing him, he tossed it into Dean's outstretched hands. He caught it and cracked it open, helping himself to a long swig from the bottle.

"Find anything?" Sam asked, claiming the seat across from Dean. He pulled the cap off the beer and took a small sip. As he studied his older brother's casual movements, he realized that he seemed to be doing increasingly better. Sam eventually concluded that it was most likely due to the fact that he had a case to keep his mind off the Mark.

"Not a thing," Dean responded, slamming his beer down on the table with frustration. "And at this point, my eyes are swimming. We didn't find traces of sulfur or any other signs hinting there was a demon anywhere near the murder when it happened." He sighed, running a hand down his face. "So either this demon is pretty damn good at covering up its tracks, or we're dealing with something else."

Upon hearing Dean's words, Sam couldn't help but feel better about the situation. Even if they were stumped by what could possibly be killing angels, as long as it wasn't a demon, Sam was fine. But he didn't show his relief outwardly. "So...what else could it be?" He asked stupidly, half to himself. Dean gave him a look that clearly said; _'You think I know?'._ "I mean, it couldn't be an angel, right? Killing their own brethren isn't really something they go around amusing themselves with." Sam added quickly.

"Nah, I don't think so," Dean responded. "Most of those douchebags are probably more interested in throwing Cass's head on a plate than wasting their time killing each other."

Sam shrugged in agreement, thinking hard. "Hey. Remember when Cass was doing what Metatron called the _'angel Trials'_?" He gave his brother an inquisitive look. Dean cocked an eyebrow at him, raising his beer to his mouth. Sam paused for a moment, waiting for his response, and Dean gestured for him to continue. "What was the first Trial? Didn't you mention a creature?"

"Well, first off, Einstein," Dean began. "They weren't Trials. They were ingredients for a spell, to cast the angels out of-"

"I know, I know," Sam cut him off, annoyed. "To cast the angels out of Heaven. But that's not what my point is. What did you tell me, about the first Trial? Cass had to cut the heart out of a...?"

"Nephilim," Dean jumped in immediately. "It was a Nephilim. The offspring of an angel and a human." He fell silent, studying Sam and creasing his brows in thought. "You think it could be a Nephilim?" He guessed, putting words into Sam's mouth. "But there was only one on earth, and Cass killed her. Anyway, why could it be a one? What grudge would they have against..." He trailed off, eyes wide. "Who am I kidding? Why _wouldn't_ a Nephilim hate angels? They were made into a friggin' abomination by their douchebag of a parent." Sam gave his brother a look that plainly read; _'Yahtzee'._ But, still, Dean protested. "But, dude, I told you already. _Only one on earth._ And she bit the dust."

"Dean." Sam said incredulously. "You really wanna buy that crap? _Metatron,_ man. Of course he's not a... _lying, scheming..._ douche-nozzle."

Dean paused, pondering that fact for a second. "Well, Sammy, that's not really something that Metatron would _have_ to lie about. But you're right. It's our only lead, and for all we know, this other Nephilim, if there is one, could have possibly been a secret." Dean took a swig of beer. "Not so much of a secret anymore, if you ask me." He remarked after a moment.

"All right." Sam said finally, quickly stealing his laptop from Dean. "Let's see what we can find on them." He typed the word into the search engine. "Okay. So the Nephilim are sometimes called _'the sons of God and the daughters of men'._ They're the children of a human and an occupied angel vessel..." He trailed off, scrolling down the webpage. "Looks like they possess angelic abilities. Not as strong as a regular angel, but that would explain the telekinesis and superhuman strength that Gina mentioned." He continued reading, brows creased. "Here we go." He swiveled the laptop screen around so his brother could see. "Looks like Nephilim have the ability to see the angels' halos." He paraphrased. "Also, it says here that they can perceive the true form of an angel without being harmed."

"Makes it pretty easy to torture and kill them," Dean commented with a triumphant grin. "Bingo. Let's find this bitch and smoke her ass." He slammed the computer lid shut.

Sam smirked at his brother's confidence, but was thinking hard. If it had been the Nephilim that had confronted him in Gina's house...why would it break his anti-possession tattoo? They weren't enabled to take vessels, as far as he could tell. They had their own body since they were half human as well as angel. The scratch was stinging slightly, but he didn't show it on his face. Worry still consumed him as he tried to uncover the mystery of what had happened inside that house…

Something was wrong.

* * *

Castiel stood erectly, trying not to reveal the shock that he felt on his face. The holy fire crackled and hissed at his feet, a rather intimidating threat. Castiel slid his blue gaze upwards, a scowl on his face. The Nephilim was pacing before him, sporting a thoughtful expression. As Castiel scrutinized her, he concluded that she was a girl that could be considered _'attractive'._ From her gratifying figure and nice-looking features, Cass also decided that she was the kind of woman that Dean would go out of his way to flirt with.

The Nephilim continued to pace, and the silence eventually became deafening. Just as that thought crossed Castiel's brain, she spoke, her voice low and rough, as if she'd seen plenty of horrors and wasn't going to take no for an answer. "What's your name?" Cass clenched his jaw, glowering at her with an unyielding look, his eyes so cold they appeared like small shards of ice. "Not gonna talk, huh, douchebag?" The Nephilim guessed, staring back at him with just the same amount of loathing in her brown gaze. "Not a problem. I have my own ways of dealing with you cloud-hopping pansies."

With those words, she unveiled a wickedly sharp angel blade that gleamed menacingly in the moonlight that filtered in through the dust-coated windows. Castiel scrambled for his, but the Nephilim was quicker. She leaped over the flames and held the knife to his throat. "Drop the blade," She commanded, the threat clear in her tone. "Or I slice the soft skin of your neck."

"I'm going to die either way," Castiel said finally, his deadpan statement monotone and expressionless. "So _go ahead."_ A small part of him was surprised by his own audacity, but ever since he had rebelled against Heaven, he'd been gaining more and more confidence.

"You know what you need?" The Nephilim asked after a pause. "A good beating." She stepped across the ring of holy fire. Her lips curled upwards into a smirk and she brandished a crowbar from behind her. "Nighty-night," She said before slamming the bar full-force into his skull. Immediately, Castiel collapsed to the ground. Spots danced before his vision, and just before he gave into blackness, he felt the searing pain of flames scorching the skin of his forearm.

When he came to, he found himself unable to move his arms and legs. As his sight cleared, he realized that he was bound tightly to a chair in the middle of an angel trap. The paint looked old, as if the Nephilim had placed it there a while ago. Gritting his teeth, he pulled at the ropes entrapping his ankles and wrists. Pain ripped through his right arm, and his gaze snapped downwards. Half of his skin, from his wrist to his mid-forearm, had been burned almost completely off.

"No use in trying to escape, pretty boy," His gaze met her brown one, and she smiled in a sinister way. "Now. Be a good angel and answer the question... _what is your name?"_ She traced the tip of the angel blade teasingly along his cheek. He clenched his jaw shut stubbornly and she chuckled darkly. "You think you're being brave, hmm? Well, don't think that your... _courage..._ is going to get you out of this pickle." After a pause, she sliced into his skin without a warning. He felt a groan of pain bubble up his throat, but he strained to resist it.

He remained silent by a thread of endurance, and the Nephilim appeared irritated by his lack of response. "Tough nut, huh? No sweat, I can _easily_ fix that." She ran the blade across his collarbone lightly, drawing blood. "C'mon, sugar...I'm dying to know what your pretty name is." Still, Castiel ignored the pinch of the knife splitting his skin, and gritted his teeth together. "Okay. I see how it is." The Nephilim reached down and ripped open his dress shirt, exposing his bare chest.

Smirking, she tightened her grip around the angel blade's hilt and without a second thought, dug it into the flesh of his stomach at full force. A scream of agony flew past his lips and she laughed as he suffered. She twisted the blade in his abdomen and this time he was only strong enough to let out strangled gasp. "I ask _one_ more time," The Nephilim murmured under her breath, her lips grazing his ear. _"What is your name?"_

She slowly rotated the knife in his abdomen again, and pain radiated through his body. Before he knew it, he was speaking the one word that the Nephilim has been waiting to hear. _"Cas...tiel!"_ He croaked out with effort. Apparently satisfied, she roughly yanked out the knife and he slumped forward immediately, staring in shock at the blood that poured from his wound.

"Castiel?" The Nephilim repeats. "Castiel...why does that name sound familiar?" Cass didn't reply, too drained to attempt to even twitch a muscle. "Ah, yes. The other angels have talked about you...said that _you_ were the one that I should interrogate. Isn't that sweet?" Castiel mustered the strength the lift his head and stare at her. At first, he was confused. How could he possibly know what the Nephilim wanted? But then, suddenly, it hit him.

He didn't know. His brothers and sisters, no matter how bad of a situation they were in, had given out his name so that he could end up here. So he could be punished for what he had done. "Listen, I-I..." He began, his voice weak and thin. "I don't know what it is you want...I can't give you any information. I don't... _know_ anything."

"We'll see about that, handsome," The Nephilim purred, unconvinced. "So, Castiel...I hear from sources that you are affiliated with the Winchesters. Just mere tittle-tattle, really, but if you are..." She trailed off, her gaze hardening. "Then let's just say you're in a bit more trouble than you are now."

"What...what do you want with them?" Castiel panted, confusion building up inside him as he heard the Nephilim mention the brothers. "They're halfway across...across the country..." Was it possible that they were on this case as well? He wouldn't be surprised if they were. The Winchesters were the kind of hunters that grabbed the first job they could find.

"Ah, so you _do_ know them," The Nephilim snarled. "Interesting. Well, you should know that those self-absorbed bastards are on my tail as we speak. Aren't much of a threat, if I do say so myself. _Sure,_ so they stopped the Apocalypse and the Leviathans...plus a few other measly accomplishments. But they failed in closing the gates of Hell? Proves they aren't as tough as I've heard." She paused, stepping back and looking him over. "But _you,_ Castiel, your reputation precedes you. Caused the fall, huh? What rotten luck. Now the fam's out for your head, aren't they?" A menacing look passed over her features as she spoke again. "Well, I'll be the one to present them with that head."

Castiel squirmed in his seat, keeping an emotionless gaze focused on the Nephilim's face. He was concentrating on slowly unbinding the ropes around his wrist. Maybe it would buy him a minute to grab his phone and call up Sam and Dean for help.

The Nephilim didn't notice his attempts as she sauntered up to him, twirling the angel blade in between her fingers. "I have a question, sweet cheeks. You'd better answer, or you're in for much worse." After a beat, she spoke again. Slowly, so that Castiel could catch every word. "Where is the angel, Chamuel?" The inquiry was rough, impassive, but Cass could detect a glimmer of emotion within her statement.

He looked up at her with contempt, but also apology, since he was unaware of both the whereabouts of this angel, and also its identity. "I...don't know." He said carefully, struggling to make his words sound as truthful as he actually was.

But the Nephilim wasn't convinced. In a split second, she lunged down and sliced deep into his scorched forearm. He let out a tortured scream through clenched teeth as sharp, excruciating pain vibrated through his body. She slashed his arm again, and again, and again.

When she finally stopped, Castiel had several gashes in both forearms, his chest, and his face. It was agonizing, and it took all of his self-control to continue his escape attempt. The Nephilim turned her back on him, emitting a long sigh. "If only I could use a variety of things for torturing you winged assholes. That'd be much for fun." She picked up a rag and began to the wipe the blood from the knife.

With every ounce of strength he had left inside him, Castiel broke free from the rope on his right arm. He slid his arm out, stifling a whimper of pain as he disrupted his injuries. The Nephilim didn't notice. He swiftly reached inside his trench coat and pulled out his cell phone. His quiet movements were shaky as he tapped the first number on his phone without looking at the screen. His only contacts were Sam and Dean, so he had chosen one of them.

He shakily pressed the phone to his ear and relaxed as he heard the familiar buzzing. Within two rings, Sam's voice picked up on the other end of the line. "Cass? What's up?"

Before Castiel had a chance to respond, the phone was slapped away from him. "Sam!" Cass yelled, praying that the younger Winchester would hear his call. "I-" The Nephilim slammed her foot down on the phone, cracking the screen and breaking their connection.

"You insolent, little douche!" She raged, brandishing the angel blade and beginning to slash every visible patch of skin on Castiel's body. She repeated the same statement over and over again. _Where is Chamuel...where is Chamuel...where is Chamuel?_ Cass struggled to tell her that he _didn't know,_ but she wouldn't stop, and he was growing weaker by the minute.

His entire body felt as if it had been drenched in gasoline and then lit on fire. It was unbearable...he couldn't talk, he couldn't move...he just wanted it to be over. He hoped that at least one of his wounds would bleed out completely so that he could just... _die._

Soon enough, the pain became too much to handle and Castiel slipped into the sweet solitude of unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Even before the other end of the line went dead, Sam knew that Castiel was in trouble. The desperation in the angel's voice...it had been unmistakable. Anxiety shot through him and he yanked the phone away from his ear. Swiftly, yet efficiently, he turned on the GPS on Cass's cell in order to find him.

After a moment, Castiel's location popped up on the screen. Sam studied it with confusion. It seemed that the angel was near Durham as well, inside some old abandoned warehouse just outside the city limits. But after a moment, the location disappeared. Sam stared at the phone. He hadn't done anything to the GPS, which only meant that Cass's phone had been turned off or broken. It couldn't have been the angel, because it had sounded over the line like someone had slapped the phone away.

"Dean," He called out, striding to the bathroom door and slamming his fist against it to get Dean's attention. Sam could hear the flow of the water pounding against the tub from the nozzle. Frankly, Sam was relieved that Dean had decided to take a shower. He'd been a reeking mess for the past day or two, and Sam had been debating whether or not to tell his older brother to do so himself. "Get outta there, stat. We've got a problem."

Dean emitted a muffled _'kay'_ of understanding, and Sam headed back to the desk by the window and sat down in the chair. He drummed his fingers anxiously against the wood surface, mind racing. Was it possible that Castiel had been hunting the Nephilim and had been captured? If so, they needed to get to him...fast. If Castiel was killed...well, he didn't want to even think about it. The angel had done so much for him and Dean that he was almost like a brother to both of them.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" Dean questioned him, striding out of the bathroom and rubbing a towel through his hair. He threw the thin cloth down on his motel bed while giving Sam a quizzical look. "You look like your puppy ran away." He pulled on a light olive green button down over his black T-shirt and rolled up the sleeves before claiming the seat across from Sam at the desk.

"Shut up," Sam responded, annoyed by his brother's jibe. "Listen...Cass just called."

Dean furrowed his brow, confused by why the angel would call them. "Cass? What'd he want?"

"That's the thing, Dean," Sam said. "It cut off before he could tell me why he called. All I heard him say was my name, and then the line went dead." He paused, allowing his brother to mull over what he was saying. "I turned on the GPS on his cell, and I got some old, supposedly abandoned warehouse just outside the city. Why the hell would Cass be there?" He was suggesting the obvious, and it didn't take his brother long to figure it out.

Dean leaned back in the chair, thinking. "Abandoned warehouse in an isolated part outside of town..." He said slowly, still processing the information. His green eyes lifted to meet Sam's hazel ones, and the edge of his mouth curled upwards into a smirk of triumph. "Doesn't that sound like the perfect torture chamber to you?"

"Exactly what I was thinking," Sam confirmed. "And if we're right, we've gotta get to Cass quick. If this Nephilim is just torturing angels because their existence made her an abomination...then she's not going to care who she kills." Dean nodded in agreement and stood up, shrugging on his military green jacket. "Looks like it's about ten miles from here." Sam said after a fleeting glance at his phone. He climbed to his feet as well and pulled on his own tan suede jacket.

When both Winchesters were inside the Impala, Dean started up the engine. "You'd better floor it." Sam told him. Dean shot his younger brother an irritated look that spoke louder than words. _Of course_ he was going to floor it, he wasn't stupid. This was probably one of the only chances they would get to catch this bitch, and he wanted to get there as soon as possible.

Dean was relieved that this hunt seemed to be taking his mind off the Mark. But some small part of him still wished that he could be searching for Abaddon. That red-headed bitch was the most of his worries, but he had to admit that he had needed a break from his intense daze of determination.

* * *

They reached the warehouse in a little less than ten minutes. Dean swore he could hear the wheels of the Impala screech as he skidded up in front of the ramshackle building. The minute he powered down the engine, both he and his brother were jumping out and racing towards the entrance at full-speed, each tightly clutching the smooth hilt of an angel blade.

"So, what's the plan?" Sam asked as they paused at the door.

Dean stole a glance at his brother and shrugged. "When has one of our plans ever worked out? Let's just wing it." Sam's expression was half-approving, half-skeptical, which Dean had to admit was a peculiar look on anyone's face. They stayed silent and listened for any sounds from within. Nothing. Sam looked briefly at him for the signal, and Dean nodded once. He pressed his palm to the rundown door and it fell open, swinging precariously on its rusted hinges.

Both brothers were tense and alert, their hunter instincts on guard. Dean held his blade aloft in front of him, his eyes searching the shadowed warehouse. The moon was concealed by a layer of clouds, so only a dim silver-gray glow illuminated the gravel floor. From what Dean could see, the entire area was motionless, not a single soul shifted. "...the hell?" He said in a hushed whisper. "I thought you said Cass called from here."

"This is the location it gave me, just before the signal cut off," Sam replied, his grip on the hilt of the blade so taut that his knuckles turned white. "I don't know, could it have been scrambled?" Dean gave his brother a look that clearly said he was the last person in the world that he should ask. Sam let out a sigh of irritation, annoyed by the fact that they were so close to finding the Nephilim, and it wasn't here. Still, the younger Winchester trekked deeper into the warehouse, searching for any signs of Castiel or the Nephilim.

And it was a good thing he did. Almost instantly when he turned the corner, he found the bloodied body in a chair surrounded by an angel trap. He recognized the familiar tan trench coat and his heart traveled up to his throat. "Dean!" He called, rushing to Castiel. He hovered his palm in front of the angel's mouth and was relieved when he felt the feeble inhalations and exhalations. "Hey. Cass." He jostled him as carefully as he could, unwilling to injure him even further. The unconscious angel gave no response, and Sam gave up, lifting Castiel's body upwards from its slumped position.

Dean was standing behind him, keeping close watch in case the Nephilim jumped out at them. "He okay?" He asked, gesturing to Castiel. Sam gave him a look that suggested he didn't know. Dean nodded. He was anxious about his friend's condition, Cass was like a brother to both him and Sam, but they needed to stick to the bigger picture here before they worried about Castiel. "Okay. Let's get him outta here. I'm gonna scout the area...see if the Nephilim actually booked it." He headed away from them, holding the angel blade before him.

The warehouse was dark and lonely, the only noise was the sound of Dean's quiet footsteps and Sam's careful attempt to untie Castiel in the background. This is what you would expect an abandoned building to look like…without a living soul inside. The Nephilim was gone. She had clearly been here, judging by Castiel's condition, but Dean assumed that the minute she realized Cass had gained connection with someone, she had beat him up and bailed.

Dean paused by a rusted old pipe dangling off the wall, frowning. There was some sort of dark residue dripping slowly off the end of it. He stepped closer, studying it closely, and reached his hand out. A few drops splashed onto his outstretched palm and he brought it closer to him, touching it with the fingers on his free hand. It was dark chestnut in color and sticky, with a thick viscosity like that of molasses. Dean had never seen it before now, and he was currently unaware of not only what it could be, but also where it could have possibly come from. After looking at it for a moment longer, he realized that he had seen it before...it looked vaguely similar to the dried substance he had found on the dead angel vessel. Could this residue be connected to the Nephilim somehow? Dean didn't doubt it…it appeared as if this warehouse was the Nephilim's hideout for most of the time. But did they really give off a residue? Dean had never heard of it, but then again, he didn't know much about Nephilim in the first place.

Dean shook his head, deciding internally that the substance wasn't a huge deal, and wiped his hands off on his jacket. He grimaced as the sticky residue clung to his skin, scraping his fingers roughly against the grimy wall of the warehouse. "Dean!" Sam's voice sounded from near the building entrance. "You coming?" He could hear Sam's pants as his brother attempted to haul Castiel to the door.

"Uh, yeah," Dean replied. "I'll be right there." He said, rubbing the last of the residue off on the wall. He hurried to meet Sam, who was stumbling under the weight of Castiel's unconscious body. "Hey, hey, hey, here…" He slipped one of Cass's arms around his shoulders and the two brothers supported the angel back to the Impala. They succeeded in loading him into the backseat and each slid into their usual seat; Dean behind the wheel and Sam in shotgun.

* * *

When they reached the motel parking lot, they tried to make themselves unnoticed as they dragged a bloody, unconscious man into their room. Thankfully, it was well past dark, and most of the guests staying at the motel were asleep. They staggered across the threshold and allowed Castiel to collapse onto the nearest bed. Finally, the angel seemed to momentarily regain consciousness, emitting a weak groan of pain. "Hey, Cass," Dean spoke quickly. "Don't try to move." He instructed, not even certain that Castiel was hearing him, since he appeared to pass out again the minute he had registered the agony he was experiencing.

Both Winchesters were struggling to extract any medical knowledge they had collected throughout the years from their brains while patching up Castiel's injuries. There was a particularly nasty wound that cut straight into his abdomen, almost slicing through his spinal cord. Dean wasn't surprised that the angel didn't seem to have the strength to regain consciousness. Hell, if it were him, he wouldn't _want_ to. He wouldn't wake up until he absolutely had to.

Dean grabbed a clean towel from the motel bathroom and pressed it up against the injury in Castiel's abdomen. As he applied pressure to it while Sam retrieved a few bandages to hold the dressing in place, the crimson blood immediately began to soak the white material of the towel. "Motel manager's not gonna be too happy about us wrecking his good towels, eh?" Dean commented, looking to his brother with a smirk. Sam appeared unamused, not even cracking a smile as he spread the bandages over the deep stab wound. Dean pulled his hands away, satisfied that the gauze was administering enough pressure onto the injury. "We good for this one?" He asked.

Sam nodded, although he looked rather unconvinced. "Yeah, I think so." He replied, dusting his hands off on his jeans. Both of them finished treating the rest of Castiel's wounds, which happened to be an astonishing array of injuries spanning from shallow, deep, small, large…basically every description of a knife wound you could imagine. "He must've really said something to piss that bitch off," Dean remarked as they finished patching up the last of the angel's cuts and gashes. "Holy crap."

Sam dipped his head in agreement, but he was barely listening to his brother's incessant commentary. His brow was creased in thought as he sat down on the empty bed. He bit his lip, pondering the situation in earnest. They were in a difficult position now, after rescuing Castiel...what could they possibly do to catch the Nephilim? His concentration on the subject was abruptly broken as Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face.

"Hey. You listening to me, geek-boy?" The older Winchester inquired, this time clapping his hands in front of his younger brother's dazed face in order to get his attention.

Sam pushed Dean's hands away from his face, irritated. "Yeah, I'm listening." He responded, his lie so pathetic that it was almost comical. Sam knew for a fact that he had never been skilled at lying, but nevertheless, he always managed to let one slip at least once every week. It was usually instinct that urged him to be untruthful, but sometimes it was for the greater good. Whether it was his own well-being, or Dean's.

Dean gave him a skeptical look that clearly suggested he didn't believe him. Not that it was a big deal, Sam ignored Dean's ceaseless ramblings constantly. So, instead of continuing on with his endless prattling, Dean decided to focus on what Sam had been brooding on. After an awkward pause and a melodramatic eye roll from the older Winchester, Dean spoke again. "Hey, dude. Whaddya chewing over, huh?"

Sam let out a deep sigh. "Look, man…the Nephilim is gonna be pissed when she realizes we rescued Cass. Well, judging from his condition, she'll be _beyond_ pissed." He barely paused to allow Dean to mull over that fact. "I feel like we should use that against her. If we return to the warehouse, we can lure her out by telling her that _we_ were the ones who took Cass. It'll be two against one, and we'll have a better chance at killing her if we have two angel blades."

Dean huffed, pondering his brother's words. "I don't know, man," He began skeptically. "She seems pretty damn smart, booking it when she did. We'll need to use something else to coax her out of hiding." His mind was whirling rapidly, becoming so muddled with his current point of fixation that all other coherent thoughts were pushed to the background. He was struggling, trying to figure out what they could possibly use as bait for the Nephilim.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "But the question is… _what?"_ Both siblings fell silent as the realization broke through. Seemingly in slow motion, each of their gazes slid to look at Castiel's unconscious form, lying motionless on the motel bed. They turned to each other, and although both their expressions suggested they were entirely opposed to the idea, Dean gave a minuscule nod that Sam acknowledged with a dip of his head. It was their only option.

They would use Castiel as their bait.

* * *

Neither Sam nor Dean was willing to forcefully awaken the unconscious angel, so, they waited. Not patiently, since not one of the brothers was particularly known for their forbearance, but nonetheless respectfully. And when the blue irises of Castiel's gaze were exposed for the world to see, Sam and Dean were ready. "Cass, hey, hey, hey…" Sam rushed to their friend, helping him sit up. The angel was groaning, his face screwed up in his agony.

Castiel blinked rapidly, struggling to regain his senses. When his vision cleared, he realized that Sam was right in front his face, looking worried. "Sam." He said slowly, letting out a cough as his ragged breathing hitched in his chest. His gaze traveled, finding Dean sitting at the desk by the window. "And Dean." He shivered, chilled, as he discovered that his coat and shirt had been removed. "...cold…" He mumbled, looking back to Sam.

"A blanket," Sam responded immediately. "Dean, grab the comforter from that bed, will you?" The older Winchester promptly obliged, tossing the blanket to his brother before flopping back down in the chair by the window. Cass grunted, wincing as he shifted his weight when Sam placed the comforter over his trembling body. He then cracked a half-amused smile. "What's so funny, Cass?" Sam inquired, climbing off of the bed and claiming the seat across from Dean.

The angel chuckled weakly. "It's like I'm human again…" He explained, grinning wider. His smile faded slightly, and his brow creased. "I can't decide whether I enjoy this or not." Both Winchesters laughed politely, but Castiel could tell that they were entirely into the game. He could sense an underlying of tension in their stances and their tones. "What's…going on…?" He inquired haltingly after a rather long, awkward pause.

He saw Dean take a deep breath in as Sam spoke. "Cass…we didn't catch the Nephilim," He began slowly. Castiel creased his brow, unable to stop the incessant pounding of his heart, and decided to remain silent. "There's only one way that we can successfully lure her out," Sam continued, looking rather uneasy. "And…we need bait. At the moment, there's only one thing that the Nephilim wants, and…and that's you, Cass."

The angel blinked as the realization sunk in. "I'm the…bait?" He asked slowly, the pain from his wounds seeming to momentarily disappear. Sam gave a minuscule nod, remaining silent as he watched him. Castiel's blue gaze revealed no emotion, as usual, but inside, with his newly acquired human feelings, he felt inevitable distress. This Nephilim seemed to be more powerful and much more ambitious than the last one he had encountered, which made her dangerous.

For the first time in a long time, he felt vulnerable. He didn't _want_ to be exposed to the evil in the world. What was making him think like this? That was something Cass couldn't answer. But he looked to Sam, and then to Dean, and then back to Sam, his expression adamant in his decision.

"Okay. I'll do it."


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

The motel room was completely silent except for the deep, steady breathing of the two Winchesters. Sam lay on the bed across from Castiel, his body slack and immobile. Dean was sprawled out on the floor by the window with a pillow cushioning his head, lightly snoring.

The angel resisted a groan of pain as he shifted his weight. His injuries were throbbing, and he wished internally that he was human again. That way he could lock himself away from the agony in the darkness of sleep. But there was no way for him to do so. He knew he should be thankful…if he had happened to be human when the Nephilim tortured him, he would be in much more terrible condition than he was already.

As Castiel succeeded in lifting his damaged body into a sitting position, he cast a hopeless, dispirited glance out of the motel window. It was getting light out, and Cass knew that soon Sam and Dean would rouse and they would launch their plan into action.

A part of him was anxious to get moving, to force the Nephilim to stop hurting other angels. But another, different part of him, the recently acquired... _selfish_ part of him told him to leave while the brothers were still asleep.

But, of course, Castiel would do no such thing. He was undeniably loyal…he would never abandon the Winchesters in the heat of the moment because of _fear_. It was unethical, traitorous…and, not to mention, incredibly cynical.

Castiel's doubtful thoughts were interrupted by Sam shifting restlessly in his sleep. He blinked, watching the younger Winchester toss and turn. Mild fear shot through Cass as he comprehended that Sam was waking up. He was still uncertain about their whole plan. The Nephilim was a clever one, it was entirely possible that she could guess their tactic and take advantage of that.

Castiel couldn't bite back a long groan of pain as he disrupted the deep stab wound in his lower abdomen. Immediately, Sam burst upwards. Cass took shaky breaths, waiting for the pain to die down. His vision was hazy, and he vaguely heard Sam's voice, asking him what was wrong, where it hurt…Too much in pain to respond coherently and clearly, Castiel closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing. Eventually, to his intense relief, reality slowly faded away as the agony ruled him over.

When Castiel didn't respond and his eyes slid closed, Sam let out a sigh. He wasn't sure whether he should be worried or not. The angel appeared to have slipped unconscious again.

After watching Cass worriedly for a moment longer, Sam turned to Dean's slumbering form. His older brother was still snoring softly, and Sam rolled his eyes before nudging him with his foot. "Get up," He said bluntly. Dean mumbled something unintelligible, still asleep, and Sam shoved his shoulder, this time with his hand. "Now."

Finally, Dean's eyes opened completely and he grunted as he sat up. "Goddammit, Sam. What time's it?" He asked, running a hand wearily over his face. His fingers grazed along his rough cheeks and he realized that he hadn't shaved in a couple days.

"Quarter to five," Sam responded monotonously, sifting through his duffel bag for god-knows-what. Pissed off that Sam had woken him so early, Dean opened his mouth to angrily reply, but Sam spoke before he could get a word out. "I think Cass passed out again. He seems to be in a lot of pain…it'll be pretty damn difficult to get him to the warehouse."

Dean sighed, staggering to his feet. "We'll just have to try," He answered lamely. This was one of the times when he really hated hunting. Having to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, to deal with injured comrades. It was always the worst when Sam was wounded…to endure his own brother's suffering, and at the same exact time, try to help him.

But Dean couldn't imagine another lifestyle. He'd tried living a normal life with Lisa Braeden and her son, Ben, and he'd loved them like family. But that entire time, he'd never felt quite right. Like he didn't belong in a suburban area, living a normal life. Hunting was what he'd grown up with, and it would be how he lived until he died.

"Hey," Dean strode over to Castiel's immobile form. He nudged the angel's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Cass. You with us?" There was no response. Dean tapped Castiel once more, and when that resulted in the same, he turned back to his brother. "Yeah, he's out." Dean headed to the window and grabbed the pillow he'd been using. He tossed it back on Sam's bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his face.

Sam smirked at his brother, a small chuckle bubbling out of his mouth. "We need to catch a snow day sometime soon?"

Dean shot Sam a death glare, but he was too tired to think up a clever response to the younger Winchester's jibe. Not that he would've been able to…comebacks were rather tricky in Dean's experience. But what did Sam expect? _Dean Winchester_ to be completely alert at four-forty five in the morning? _Dean friggin' Winchester?_ No way in hell was that _ever_ going to be the case.

Finally, Sam unearthed what he was looking for…a dull red, long-sleeved plaid shirt…and pulled it on over his T-shirt. "We need to get Cass to the warehouse before anyone wonders what we're doing lugging around a bloody, unconscious man."

Dean stood up and shrugged on his dark navy blue army jacket. "So, we sure on this plan of ours? We bust in, and put Cass inside that angel trap again…and then…we wait for her to show up?" He gave his younger brother an inquiring look, and Sam made a face, realizing how flimsy their plan of action was, but nodded in confirmation nonetheless.

Dean raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed, and Sam rushed to solidify his reasoning. "Listen, man, Cass is the only thing we've got that the Nephilim wants. She'll show up to claim him back. And when we reach that point, it'll be two against one. We'll bust her ass in half in five seconds, no questions asked. Just think…we could be on the road home by this afternoon." Dean opened his mouth to reply, but another familiar voice spoke before Dean had a chance to say anything.

"Sam. Dean." The weak, quiet voice sounded from behind the two Winchesters, and both brothers whirled around in surprise. Cass was awake now, although he only looked half-conscious. Dean couldn't help but think that Cass looked rather comical, coated from head to toe with gauze in every shape and size imaginable. Dean felt slightly annoyed with himself after he allowed that thought to cross his mind, since the dude practically needed each and every one of those damnable bandages.

Cass let out a feeble groan of pain before mustering enough strength to speak. "What…what if…this plan doesn't work? What if she takes advantage of us? She's unbelievably smart from what I witnessed...and this strategy is rather... _insubstantial_."

Dean and Sam exchanged a mildly impressed look. Castiel was now speaking like a full-fledged, experienced hunter. The angel had been out of Heaven's radar for quite a while now, so he was familiar with the usual customs of a hunter. But it hadn't been until a year ago when he really did decide to take on the job and crappy lifestyle.

"You're right, Cass," Sam said finally, his statement following an awkward pause. He was silent for another heartbeat before he spoke again, deciding to be straightforward with Castiel. "But being a hunter also means taking chances for the greater good."

Sam's words were undeniably true. Whatever you were hunting, whatever the costs were, you had to take risks. If they really wanted to kill this bitch, then they would have to make do with the single plan that had just a glimmer of possibility. It was the only way.

* * *

"Easy, Cass," Dean said absently as he and his brother lifted the injured angel into the backseat of the Impala. Castiel was trembling, and every few seconds, when one of his gashes was disrupted, he'd start violently. "Don't flinch back. You're gonna upset your wounds." The angel watched the two Winchesters with wide blue eyes, his gaze switching from Sam to Dean every few seconds. He would gasp out if he could, but he was too much in agony to gather the strength to vocalize.

Once they made sure Castiel was comfortable, the two brothers climbed into the car. "This had better work," Dean muttered to Sam under his breath. The younger Winchester scowled to himself, but said nothing. Dean had every right to be uncertain about their plan. Hell, Sam was having his own doubts. But, like he'd told Castiel, there was no other way that they were aware of that could work.

They reached the warehouse in less than ten minutes, and Dean pulled up in front of the building slowly. He turned the key, powering down the Impala's engine. "Okay, Cass, you ready?" Sam glanced in the backseat at the angel, whose face was twisted into a grimace of intense pain. Sam winced sympathetically as he recognized the agony in Castiel's eyes. But when Cass's blue gaze met Sam's hazel one, he contorted his face into a forced expression of determination. "Don't worry. We've got your back." The angel nodded slowly, and Sam dipped his head in acknowledgment.

As Sam clambered out of the passenger seat as quickly as his long legs would allow him, he found Dean standing with his elbows leaning against the hood of the Impala. His brow was creased in deep thought as he stared at the gloomy, somber building. "Sam, are you really sure about this?" Dean asked monotonously without turning his head to look at his brother.

Sam swallowed, thinking, while walking up beside Dean. "Yeah. I'm sure." It was half a lie, but clearly it was enough to satisfy his older brother, who simply nodded and opened the back door of the Impala to assist Cass to the warehouse.

They crossed the threshold with trepidation, Cass supported between the two of them and an angel blade clutched tight in each of their free hands. "All right, Cass…" Dean said under his breath, half to himself. "Come right over here." There was a thin line scratched through the angel trap, breaking its power. Once they had situated the angel inside the chair from before, Sam went to find the spray paint can that the Nephilim had used while Dean secured Cass's bindings.

"Dean…" Castiel finally spoke, staring at the older Winchester with fear evident in this gaze. "I…still don't know about this…"

"Chill, man," Dean responded. "It's going to work. Don't worry, Sam and I have got your back." He tightened the ropes around the angel's wrists, the bindings so taut that they almost immobilized Cass's arms. "You'll be fine." Dean stepped away from Castiel just as Sam returned with a can of orange spray paint. The younger hunter swiftly closed the line, once more imprisoning the angel inside the trap. Dean glanced at his brother, his face expectant. "So…what now?"

Sam shifted, his hazel eyes flitting nervously around as he quickly scanned the area with evident apprehension. "Now…" He trailed off, his gaze switching between Dean and Cass every few seconds. "We wait."

* * *

"Dude, I don't think she's gonna show," Dean muttered to his brother. They had been crouching in the shadows, concealed and unseen, for well over an hour, and, still, the Nephilim remained missing in action. "We should reconsider our plan."

"Shut up," Sam responded, still optimistic. Dean rolled his eyes and grunted, straightening out of his crouched position and lowering himself to the floor. He leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, sighing in irritation. He opened his mouth to say something more, but Sam put up his finger, gesturing for him to stay quiet. The younger Winchester glanced around the corner, checking on Castiel. "Dammit," He hissed under his breath as he caught sight of the angel, who appeared to have slipped unconscious. "I think Cass passed out again." He said to his brother.

Dean let out a scoff, crossing his arms and resting his head against the wall. "I don't blame him. I'd like to do that myself." There was a pause before he spoke again. "I mean, seriously, this is ridic—"

He was cut off by a loud scraping sound as someone pushed open the warehouse door. Sam glared at Dean as a message to shut the hell up, and his older brother's jaw snapped closed. The younger Winchester tightened his grip on his angel blade, the feeling of the cool metal reassuring against his fingertips. He remained hidden, waiting.

After a minute, he heard Cass's groan as he regained consciousness, and then…the Nephilim's voice. There was no gasp of surprise, simply a content greeting. " _There_ you are, Castiel…" She spoke serenely. "It _is_ Castiel, correct?" There was no response from the angel. "You're all patched up now, aren't you?" She continued. "Why'd you come back? I mean, you just know I'm going to kill you."

Cass was breathing heavily, watching her with hateful eyes. When he once more emitted no reply, the Nephilim let out a giggle. "Oh, _I_ see…" She trailed off, running a hand down his face in a maliciously seductive caress. "Your friends…the Winchesters…rethought their plan to rescue you? Because they don't want to risk their own asses by putting their lives in my hands?" He said nothing, knowing that if he remained silent, she would fall for her own assumptions. He was correct in that. "Ah…you poor, unwanted darling…" He could almost hear the amused sarcasm dripping from her tone. "You know, if I didn't hate you so much, I'd take pity on you. Maybe even... _spare_ your sorry ass."

"You go ahead and kill me," Castiel snarled defiantly. "I don't give a rodent's ass." The minute he said that, he realized that it was _'rat's_ ass', but he didn't allow his embarrassment to show through as he glared up at the Nephilim.

She pursed her lips, amused. "You are _adorable_ ," She gushed. "You think you're brave, don't you, sugar?" With a smirk, she stroked a finger across his stubble. "Well, let me tell you something…you aren't." She was right in front of him, and Castiel was sick of this delay. So he did the only thing he could think of…he spat right at her. It hit her directly in the eye, and she stumbled backwards. "Damn you…" She hissed, wiping the saliva from her face. "You wanna play? Okay. Let's play." The Nephilim unveiled her angel blade from her jacket and without a pause, sliced the tip through the flesh of his cheek.

The minute Sam and Dean heard the small strangled inhalation emitted by the angel as the Nephilim cut through his cheek, they jumped into action. They had caught her by surprise, which came as a shocker to Dean. From what Castiel had described, he had expected the Nephilim to a be a bit more perceptive than she had proven to be.

With a yell, Dean tackled the Nephilim to the ground. It was obvious that she had had no idea that they would still be there. Guess Cass was wrong about this chick being smart. _This is friggin' pathetic._ Dean thought to himself, his bicep muscles straining as he struggled to hold down the Nephilim, who was writhing uncontrollably beneath him. "Stay down, bitch," He snarled, gripping his hands tightly around her throat, just a millimeter away from cutting off her air supply.

Sam stood behind his brother, watching silently. "Dean, chill. You're gonna kill her," He warned, watching the Nephilim's wide brown eyes with a grimace on his face. She looked so…human, even though she really wasn't anything near that. When Dean showed no sign of loosening his grip, Sam gave him an incredulous look. _"Dean."_

"What, man?" Dean growled, not even bothering to look at his younger brother. "Isn't that what we want? This bitch is on her own killing spree. Let's teach this…" He trailed off and cast a glance at the Nephilim. " _Little girl_ …a lesson." His voice was thick with hate, and a sinister look glimmered in the depths of his green irises. Sam was impressed that the Nephilim was keeping her cool beneath his grasp.

"Oh, you teach me, pretty boy," She purred, her voice ominously malicious. "But you should know something… _I'm a terrible student_." She giggled, relaxing her body against the ground. It was pretty amazing, how quickly and easily the Nephilim had composed herself. "You want your angel? Take him, I won't stop you. There are plenty of those winged douche-nozzles to choose from."

She paused, examining Dean's expression. "But it's not him you want, is it? I've heard about you two Hardy boys." She scoffed. "Hasn't everyone? You stopped Yellow Eyes, you stopped the Leviathans, hell, you stopped the friggin' _Apocalypse_. You're celebrities in the hunting world. And I also know that you like to _get the job done._ Which, in my case, I suppose, means…death?"

Dean clenched his teeth together, stopping himself from completely suffocating the Nephilim by a strand of sensibility. He let go of her throat, but still kneeled over her, making himself appear as if he had released his threat. He slipped a hand inside his jacket and smirked down at her condescendingly. He then spoke, his tone low and husky. "Damn straight." He revealed the angel blade he held clutched in his hand and lunged down towards her, knife aimed for her heart.

"Dean!" Sam yelled out, charging at his brother with his heart lurching. But the minute his cry ripped through the air, Dean paused with the angel blade hovering in midair, a mere millimeter from the Nephilim's heart. "Dean," Sam repeated, relieved. "Don't…just, don't."

Dean shot him an almost disbelieving look. "Am I hearing you correctly, Sam?" He snapped out. "What the hell's your problem, dude?" He gestured the Nephilim, who lay beneath him with a smug look on her face. "This bitch deserves to die. Are you really that dense, Sam? This ain't Shirley Temple we're dealing with here, man. This is a twisted, perverted bitch who needs to be put down ASAP."

"Oh…" The Nephilim stuck out her lower lip in a mocking pout. "You're hurting my feelings. Sweetheart, you need to learn how to talk nicely. Didn't your mama teach you that one phrase that all little maggots know? _'If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all'_. Lemme guess…that's pretty difficult lesson to follow, ain't it, hardass?"

"Enough!" Sam instructed, annoyed. "Dean, get up."

"Oh, I ain't goin' nowhere," Dean seethed, glaring into the Nephilim's brown eyes with a sinister expression on his sour face.

" _Ooh_." The Nephilim responded, smirking. "Giddyup."

 _"You think this is a friggin' game!?"_ Dean demanded, shaking her shoulders roughly.

"If that's how you wanna put it, sugar…" She murmured with a smile, her gaze . "But you have to know that I _never_ play by the rules." She winked at him, and Dean once more lifted the angel blade, his face twisted into a scowl. Sam jumped into action, practically dragging his brother off of the Nephilim. He gave her a look that clearly said, _'Don't even think about escaping'_. She wiggled her eyebrows at him, but made no move to get up.

He gripped Dean's shoulders. "Dude, listen to me. I get that we've gotta kill her. But don't you think that we should maybe figure out why she's killing all of these angels?"

"Who _cares_?" Dean snapped out. "I mean, seriously, she's doing this crap for _revenge_ , revenge on the angels! Simple as that!" His expression was completely and utterly sinister, his green eyes darkening with hatred even more when he so much as even looked at the Nephilim. "Sam, she's _patronizing_ me. She thinks I'm not gonna kill her, and she's going out of her way to taunt me. Can't you see that?"

"Look, man, I know," Sam responded with a sigh. "But there's no harm in asking her," He paused, and Dean opened his mouth to protest. Sam continued before his brother had a chance to get a word in. "Yes, I get that she probably won't talk. Yet, like I said, _no harm in asking_." He gave him a meaningful look, and Dean glowered at him before nodding reluctantly.

"Yeah, whatever. Knock yourself out." He turned away abruptly and strode to the other side of the warehouse, muttering angrily to himself. He didn't know what his brother thought he was going to get out of that bitch. A name, maybe? That wasn't going to help jack squat. They came here to stop the killings, nothing else. If that wasn't why they were here, then Dean was completely lost. He might as well be at the bunker looking for Abaddon, the bitch that they really _should_ be trying to kill.

Sam strode to the Nephilim and glared down at her. "Is your stance meant to be intimidating?" She asked boredly, her eyebrows raised in question. "Because, sweetie, it sure as hell ain't workin' on me. You've gotta work on that scowl. To me, it seems that dreamboat over there has got it down perfectly. Ain't that right, hot stuff?"

"You shut your damn piehole," Dean snapped back at her, pissed.

"Sheesh," The Nephilim responded, mockingly offended. "Touchy, touchy. You wound me, sugar pie, you know that?"

"I'd like to do a lot more than that," Dean threatened, twirling his angel blade around menacingly between his fingers.

She giggled, looking greatly amused, as if Dean were a puppy that she got enjoyed kicking over and over again to make it mad. " _Ooh._ Bite me." Sam glared at his brother, a warning to shut the hell up, and Dean reluctantly smacked his jaw shut. "Whatcha gonna do, hotshot?" The Nephilim inquired, smirking up at Sam.

He said nothing in reply, only uttering an abrupt. "Get up." She disobeyed for a moment, staring at his face with a condescending smile. "You can't keep up your facade for much longer, I'll tell you that." Sam informed her, expressionless. Her grin faded momentarily, but it had returned in an instant. When she failed to oblige once more, Sam resorted to grabbing her arm and hoisting her into a standing position. "Sit down."

The Nephilim tilted her head, gesturing with her free hand to Castiel's hunched body. "Seat's taken, if you haven't noticed."

Dean took a deep breath, having to stop himself from launching his body at the Nephilim, whose arm was still clutched tightly in Sam's grasp. "Sam." He said slowly, striding to him and taking his brother's place. "Get Cass outta here. We're gonna need that chair." Sam glanced at him, eyebrows raised, asking an unspoken question. "Seriously, man," Dean responded. "Trust me."

Sam said nothing in reply, simply pressing his lips together, sporting a rather unattractive pinched expression. He released the Nephilim into Dean's grasp and scraped his toe across the drying spray paint. "Come on, Cass," He unbound the angel's ropes and helped him to his feet. Castiel stumbled along with the him, leaning heavily against the younger Winchester's shoulder with hitched and ragged breathing.

"What...what are you going to do?" Castiel panted out, casting a glance back to where they had left Dean and the Nephilim inside the warehouse. Sam didn't respond, he too wanting to know the answer to the angel's question. He helped Cass into the backseat of the Impala, and before he had a chance to pull away and close the door, Castiel grabbed his arm. "Sam. You aren't planning to...torture...her, are you?"

Sam blinked, staring into the angel's bright blue gaze with his brows furrowed. "I...don't know what Dean's doing." He admitted haltingly. "All I do know is that I have to be there to make sure he doesn't get too carried away with that bitch." Cass still didn't know about the Mark, and Sam wasn't about the tell him. In their tense circumstances, it was simply the wrong time. He would inform the angel of it soon, but not yet. Castiel was still watching him and Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "You know how he can get."

That seemed to satisfy Cass's curiosity, and he released Sam's arm. "Promise me something, though." He said before the younger Winchester could leave.

"Uh…sure."

"Promise me you'll do what _you_ think is right."


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

The razor-sharp edge of the angel blade ran slowly across the smooth skin of the Nephilim's cheek, just a millimeter away from slicing through her flesh. She sat still, her facade built up to the fullest. She had to be vindictive, sly, elusive, foul-mouthed…anything but fearful. Ever since she'd started killing angels to get what she wanted, she'd learned how to create the perfect mask. Her brown eyes did not reveal the emotion from within, the intense fear of a traumatized little girl. That was not something she wanted her enemies to see.

"You wanna play, boyfriend?" She jibed, smiling up at the hunter, Dean Winchester, who, in her honest opinion, was the prettier of the two brothers. If she was a normal human, she had to admit that those dreamy green eyes would easily make her swoon.

Dean's fingers clutched the hilt of the angel blade so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "I ain't your boyfriend, bitch," He snarled, holding the knife threateningly to her throat. The tip of it just barely made contact with her skin.

The Nephilim concluded that it couldn't exactly be described as a knife. A long knife, maybe, but she now opted to refer to it as a short sword. Because, truthfully, that's what it really was. Long and silver and menacing, everything a sword should be. Just without the medieval vibe.

"Aw, damn it, pretty boy," She whined mockingly. "You're breaking my heart." She couldn't stop the smug smile from forming on her lips. Playing with these self-absorbed bastards was just making her day. Sure, she had a blade to her throat, and inwardly her heart was performing panicked somersaults, but her facade seemed to be talking for her. It was absolute bliss, screwing with who could possibly be the most famous hunters of all time. _Especially_ the elder Winchester, Dean. God _damn_ , was he fun to patronize. When he was serious, he was friggin' _serious._ He seemed to have a very low tolerance for being treated condescendingly.

"Shut up," Dean commanded, his patience running incredibly thin. This bitch was giving him head spins, because her ego was so damn big that he couldn't physically handle being in the presence of it. "Listen, Buffy the Angel Slayer, you can cut the crap now. You know why? Because I'd rather see you scream then continue with this BS." He emphasized his words with a menacing twirl of the angel blade, his green eyes glimmering with a sinister light.

"Ouch," The Nephilim remarked. She opened her mouth to say something more, but she was cut off by the warehouse door creaking open once more. Dean glanced around, finding his brother striding up behind him, his face resting in a permanently grim expression. "Ah!" The Nephilim exclaimed. "Looks like Skyscraper's come to join the party!" She giggled patronizingly at the nickname before relaxing back into the chair. "I would cross my legs, but I'm a little… _tied up."_

Dean ignored her, and turned to Sam, his expression steely and mirthless. He led the younger Winchester to the far edge of the warehouse, out of earshot of the Nephilim. "Listen, Sam..." He began, casting a glance back to make sure the Nephilim wasn't trying to eavesdrop. "You know what we've gotta do to make her crack, right?" He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Sam's reply.

The younger Winchester shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his brother's intense gaze. Furtively, he looked briefly back to where the Nephilim lounged tauntingly in the stiff-backed chair that she was tightly bound to. He swallowed thickly, his heart pounding in his chest. She looked so...innocent, sitting there. No matter what her attitude was, she was still a girl. Nevertheless, he nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I do," He responded. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "But, Dean...she's all yours."

Dean gave him a look, and Sam watched him with an almost pleading expression. "Sam." Dean said slowly, speaking his younger sibling's name as if it were a foreign word. "You pretty much flat out told me that the next time we ran into that son of a bitch Gadreel, you would bust his ass in half. No questions asked." His older brother's tone was appropriately confused. "Why are you hesitating now?"

Since Sam didn't know what else to say, he told his older brother his true reasoning. "She's just a girl, Dean," His brother gave him an incredulous look, opening his mouth to argue with Sam's statement. But the younger Winchester quickly cut him off. "I know, man, she's not actually a _girl,_ but...she has this innocence about her. Like she's hiding behind a sort of mask...like she's really... _scared."_ He trailed off, noting the bored expression on Dean's face. "What?"

"You done?" Dean asked, his tone expressionless. "Because, if not, by all means..." He gestured for his brother to continue, but it was clear that he didn't actually mean it. "Sam, I knew you were a pansy, but I didn't know you were _this_ much of one. She's not _scared,_ genius. She's toying with us, which, in her case, is unbelievably stupid. But whatever, man, you do the talking, I'll do the hard part."

Sam was silent for a moment before replying. "Yeah, okay," He muttered, turning tail and striding back to where the Nephilim waited. She winked at him, her brown glare mocking every move he made. He had to show her that he was not afraid of her, that she did not control his judgment. But as he looked her in the eye, he felt his confidence waning. Her gaze was so soft beneath the facade, so vulnerable...she _was_ scared, no matter what Dean said.

Still, Sam shook it off. There was a task at hand. "I'm going to ask you some questions, and if you want to avoid getting seriously hurt…" He gestured to his brother using his eyes. Dean was busy polishing his angel blade, using the fabric from his dark navy jacket. "I suggest you answer them as honestly as you possibly can."

It was peculiar, how the Nephilim looked up at him. It wasn't mockingly condescending, like how she treated Dean, it was like he was seeing behind her mask. Her gaze was almost tired, as if she had given up trying to act like someone she wasn't. She said only five small words, her voice meek and quiet, only so Sam would be enabled to hear her. "You have a kind face." She told him. He gave her a confused look, and she raised her eyebrows. "You don't want to hurt me, do you, Sam?" It was the first time she had referred to him by his real name.

He ignored her innocent question, instead exchanging a look with his brother, who gave him a nod of approval. "First things first," Sam began, stepping back so Dean could take his place in front of her. "How about a round of introductions? You know our names. What's yours?"

The Nephilim's gaze didn't waver, keeping their focus solely on Sam's eyes. She completely ignored Dean. For some reason, she felt rather... _connected_ to the younger Winchester. True, Dean was quite a bit more attractive, but Sam...there was something about him. He seemed more genuine, less dangerous. She wasn't scared to answer his questions, despite his older brother glaring her down with a sharp object in his hand. "My name is Charity."

Dean let out a snort of laughter, and Sam gave him a hard look. His brother just stared at him, a smirk of amusement forming on the edge of his lips. "It's the irony, man. _Charity?_ Really? It's almost comical."

The Nephilim... _Charity..._ looked almost hurt at the older Winchester's remark. Sam took note of her expression, and simply gestured to his sibling to keep a lid on it. Dean scowled at him, though he still looked thoroughly amused by the ironic coincidence of the situation. "Okay, Charity...can you tell me exactly _why_ you're killing angels?" Sam continued.

With those words, Charity's expression hardened, and her upper lip curled with distaste before she responded. _"Bite me."_ She growled, looking away angrily. Immediately, Dean tightened his grasp on the angel blade and began advancing towards her.

"Dean!" Sam jumped into action. "Chill, dude, okay?" His brother backed down, a sinister look still plastered onto his face. "Charity, please. You're not doing any good by refusing to answer. I get that it's personal, but we... _I_ won't judge you for it." He couldn't speak for Dean, there was no way that the older Winchester would _understand_ how Charity felt about the whole entire situation.

Charity blinked slowly, her breathing audibly erratic. Her soulful brown eyes shifted nervously to Dean, and then back to Sam.

"Tick tock, princess," Dean warned, threateningly swinging his angel blade around in a semicircle. "We've got much better things to do than hang around waiting for you to crack." Sam shot him another annoyed look, but this time his brother ignored him.

There was an elongated pause, and finally Charity's gaze met Sam's and she spoke haltingly. "I'm looking for my father."

"Your father." Sam repeated, allowing her words to sink in. "You're summoning angel after angel, and torturing them for information on your father's location?" She nodded meekly, but no regret showed in her eyes. "Charity..." Sam trailed off, thinking rapidly. He recalled Castiel mentioning once that there were a few angels who had been killed from injuries due to the fall, including the angel that Gadreel had impersonated, Ezekiel.

 _"What?"_ She snapped, her tone noticeably more irritated. "You think I'm loony? So, what? Maybe I am. _I just want to find my father."_

"What's your father's name, Charity?" Sam inquired, ignoring her retort.

She once more inhaled irregularly, as if the subject had been kept to herself for years on end. And for all Sam knew, it probably had. She was a Nephilim, a freak of nature, an abomination. Abominations usually kept to themselves. But then, she finally revealed her biggest secret. "Chamuel. His name is Chamuel."

"Chamuel." Sam said, feeling the word roll off his tongue. "Well, Charity, there's something you should know." He paused, and she blinked, creasing her brow in uncertainty. "All of the angels were...for a while...very confused, from the fall. Their main focus was finding a strong vessel that will be able to contain them, for a time, at least."

"What does that have to do with my father?" She inquired.

"A lot of them sustained multiple injuries from the fall, as well." Sam continued. "A couple of them actually died. And, since evidently all of the angels you have questioned and killed didn't know his location, it's only logical to assume that your father... _Chamuel..._ was one of the few whose injuries...got the best of them."

She swallowed deeply, thinking over his words. "But...how can you be sure?"

"I can't," Sam admitted. "But it's pretty damn likely."

She took a deep breath, narrowing her eyes as she thought over the younger Winchester's words. Sam cast a glance at his brother, who stood awkwardly in the corner, his expression revealing slight annoyance since he wasn't slicing his blade through Charity's flesh. Dean glowered at Sam, who acknowledged him with a roll of his eyes.

Truthfully, Sam was anxious about his brother's condition. Although it seemed as if the nightmares had temporarily been put on hold, Dean was increasingly becoming more and more on edge. He was unhealthily obsessed with finding Abaddon, and seemed to take pleasure in slowly and brutally killing supernatural beings. Sam wouldn't be surprised if Dean resorted to dismemberment as a personal touch.

His thoughts were interrupted by Charity's quiet response. "I believe you...Sam." She spoke his name seriously for the first time since they had run into each other. Sam exhaled deeply, relieved, and she squirmed slightly in her seat. "So...what happens now?" She asked, swallowing harshly.

Before Sam had a chance to reply, Dean stepped forward, pushing his brother behind him. "Now." He said, smirking at the petrified look in Charity's eyes.

"It's my turn." He lifted his blade, and, without a second thought, delivered a clean cut straight through Charity's throat.

* * *

"Dean, what have you done?"

Sam gaped at Charity, who was slumped forward as far as her bindings would allow, brunette locks spilling over her face and blood pooling from her neck. It was clear that she had died instantly following Dean's blow.

His brother stood in front of her body, wiping the blood from his blade using the sleeve of his jacket. The crimson liquid blended easily into the dark, rough fabric of his coat, so indistinct that it could pass for stains of water. He glanced at Sam, frowning as he noted the younger Winchester's shocked expression. "What?" He asked. "You got the info you wanted, right? It was my job to finish her off."

Sam opened and closed his jaw, trying to think up a good answer, but somehow, in his own twisted way, Dean was right. Charity had murdered countless angels, and she had been asking for death the minute she started the killing.

"Let's go, Sammy," Dean said, stowing his angel blade inside the folds of his jacket and starting towards the exit. "I'm ready to get the hell out of here. This warehouse gives me the creeps."

He was out the door before Sam mustered the strength to move a muscle.

Dean wanted to say he felt ashamed of what he had done. He really did. He had seen the look on Sam's face, the complete and utter horror at his older brother's brutal savagery. But, in truth, he felt...accomplished, satisfied...that bitch had deserved to die. Yet a small voice inside of him told him that even if she hadn't been entitled to a ruthless death, he would have been drawn to murder her. But he pushed the thought away…

Dean Winchester was not a killer of innocents.

* * *

The car ride was silent on the way back to the motel. Castiel had mysteriously disappeared by the time they returned, so there was no ragged breathing in the backseat from him, and both Winchesters were too exhausted to muster the strength to speak. They'd caught around two hours of sleep the night before. And unlike his older brother, who could easily survive with just four hours, Sam needed a good six or seven to be completely alert. All he wanted to do was collapse on a bed and pass out for an entire freaking day.

But something inside him told him that he would have an assload of trouble falling asleep. Dean's quick, precise movement, which had not been contemplated for more than a minute, was still fresh in his mind.

True, Charity had deserved to die. Sam hadn't been about to set her free. But Dean didn't even give them a chance to talk the situation over. He'd jumped into action immediately, without a second thought. Sam felt obligated to reprimand his brother, or at least tell him that from now on, they should work together in circumstances like the Nephilim's. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to get the words out.

Sam was so distracted by his incessant thoughts and weariness that he barely saw Dean's arm reach out to switch on the radio. He started violently when music blared through the car. The heavy rock tunes pounded through his skull, and he shot his brother an annoyed look. Dean returned it with an innocent raise of his eyebrows.

Sam sighed, leaning his head back against the leather of the Impala's seat and reluctantly listened to the lyrics of the song Dean was playing. After he actually attempted to pay attention, he realized that it was the song _"Point of Know Return"_ by Kansas. He lifted his head, giving Dean a look. "Kansas, dude?" He asked, struggling to break the tension that had formed between the two brothers.

Clearly, Dean felt it, too.

"Hell yeah, Kansas," Dean responded, smirking at his younger sibling. He failed to elaborate, lip-syncing a few of the words to the song before turning his green gaze back to the road ahead of them, chuckling.

The street was busy, since it was nearly nine-thirty in the morning. Cars sped past them, the drivers all focused solely on their own destinations. Sam, well...he sat fantasizing about the comfortable motel bed he would pass out on the minute he stepped across the threshold. Hopefully Dean wouldn't want to pack up and leave immediately.

Speaking of his Dean, his older brother was hastily wiping off the sheen of sweat that had formed on his forehead, huffing impatiently. Sam didn't think anything of it, although a small part of him was worried about Dean. They hadn't literally fought much with Charity, both of them taking her by surprise. He wondered vaguely if his brother could be getting sick.

It'd been years since Dean had come down with something. The last time that Sam could remember Dean getting sick was years before he had left for Stanford.

Dean had been twelve at the time, and little eight-year-old Sam had been the one taking care of his older brother. Although a twelve-year-old could easily take care of himself, Dean had been ill to the point of incoherence. Their father had been on a hunt, and by the time he'd returned, his elder son had come down with a sickness, and then, thanks to his baby brother, a few days later, recovered.

But it was impossible. Dean was by no means coming down with a sickness. It just wasn't rational…

Because hunters never got sick. Never. It was simply common sense in the two Winchesters' eyes.

* * *

Just as Dean expected, the minute his younger sibling entered their motel room, he collapsed onto his bed and was out like a light. A part of him wished he hadn't, since he was dying to get on the road. He wanted to walk the corridors of the bunker again, to pass out on his own memory foam mattress.

But, he to admit, he wasn't feeling up to driving twelve hours. His skin was coated in a cold sweat, and he felt rather hot. Must have been the adrenaline rush from earlier.

Dean stripped off his jacket and button down, leaving him in only a black T-shirt and jeans. He didn't bother with taking off his boots before falling facefirst on the motel bed, letting out a sigh of contentment. He halfway considered climbing under the covers, but he concluded that he was too hot for that. Not that he covered himself up often. Dirty and moth-eaten sheets aren't very desirable.

A wave of nausea suddenly came over him, and the last thought that crossed his mind before he completely passed out was the fact that his head felt like a thousand hammers pounding against him from inside his skull.

But he wasn't sick.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

When Sam finally surfaced fully to consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was the sunlight glaring in through the moth-eaten, yellowing white curtains hanging lopsidedly from the windows. He propped himself up on his elbows and grunted, squinting at the digital clock on the bedside table.

The crimson numbers blurred in Sam's groggy eyes, and he blinked, struggling to clear his vision. The clock read that it was just past four in the afternoon, and Sam groaned, surprised that Dean hadn't woken him yet. He hadn't meant to sleep so long. He sat up, about to apologize to his brother, who he expected to be sitting at the desk by the window on the laptop.

But Dean was nowhere to be seen. Sam frowned, confused, and looked around. His eyes found the older Winchester, dead asleep on the second bed. His breathing was so quiet Sam could have sworn that Dean was dead. He would have, too, if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of his sibling's chest.

"Hey." He said loudly before nudging his brother. "Up and at 'em." He expected a drowsy groan of protest, but none came. Dean stirred only for a second or two, before lapsing back into deep unconsciousness. _"Dean."_ Sam pressed, jostling him roughly. "Come on, dude, we've gotta hit the road." This time the groan came, but it was quieter than Sam expected. His sibling made no move to get up, and once more, Sam shoved his shoulder.

"Goddammit..." Dean mumbled, his voice strangely raspy.

Sam resisted the urge to grab his brother by the shoulders and haul him out of bed. Somehow, he restrained himself and once again addressed the older Winchester. _"Dean."_ He repeated. "We gotta go."

"Go where?" Dean muttered, still planted facefirst into the pillow.

"Back to the bunker," Sam responded, brow creased in confusion due to Dean's strange behavior. "Where else?"

Dean sighed in submission before heaving himself upwards and swinging his feet, still clad in his boots from this morning, over the side of the bed. "Yeah, yeah, okay," He grumbled, running a hand over his face. "Let's go then." He stood shakily and stumbled to where he had tossed his jacket and button down earlier. He struggled into them and sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

Dean looked up at his brother, eyebrows raised. "Well, hurry up, princess," He jibed. "You need to throw on some makeup or something?" He grinned at Sam's irritated expression. "Oh, and you don't have to take that question rhetorically."

"Shut up," Sam growled, annoyed, but nonetheless relieved that Dean seemed to have returned to his normal self. The younger Winchester turned tail and headed to the bathroom.

The minute Sam disappeared into the restroom and the door clicked shut, Dean let go of his act. He shivered relentlessly and crossed his arms over his chest. This was plain stupid. A few hours ago, he had been sweating up a storm. And now...it was like he'd been transported to the North Pole. Any rational person would conclude that he was sick, but he wasn't convinced.

Because Dean Winchester didn't get sick.

He was a warrior, and warriors couldn't afford to get even the sniffles. It was too difficult, and not to mention selfish, to be too caught up in your own problems to do your job. And in his and Sam's case...their job was crucial to the world. Even if most people had no idea it existed.

Dean's head spun as his throat tingled intensely, and before he knew it, he couldn't stifle a loud, harsh cough. A second later, he felt another one forming. Before he had a chance to let it out, he held his breath, holding it in. No point in making his brother suspicious. Dean exhaled sharply, releasing his breath. Immediately, the cough he'd been holding in escaped.

"Dean?" Sam opened the door to the bathroom. "You okay, man?"

Dean swallowed harshly. "Yeah," He said, clearing his throat and grabbing the water bottle by his bedside. "Just gulped down my water too fast."

He wished.

* * *

Dean was now behind the wheel of the Impala, the town of Durham about fifteen minutes behind them. About time, too, if you wanted Dean's honest opinion. He'd been dying to get out of there ever since they had arrived.

"Sam." Dean said finally, breaking the silence that had formed between them ever since they left. He needed something to focus on so he wouldn't be so distracted by how crappy he felt. "Did Cass just pop out while we were dealing with Queen Bitch?"

"Her name is... _was_...Charity," Sam snapped. Before Dean could respond to that, he continued. "And, yeah, apparently. Guess he didn't want to hang around longer than he had to."

Dean acknowledged Sam's statement with a grunt of mild surprise. "That's kind of shocker. Cass could barely stand on his own, let alone friggin' _fly_...or...teleport...whatever those crazy angels do."

Sam didn't reply, facing away from the older Winchester to stare out the window at the barren landscape. He was still rather irritated with Dean for murdering Charity so quickly, although it would have eventually been done. He didn't feel up to making small talk with his brother, at the moment at least...it was too soon after the incident for Sam to feel comfortable. Dean would realize that eventually.

Dean was miserable. Okay, maybe it couldn't be described as _'miserable'_. Something more accurate could be... _nauseated, aching, crappy, exhausted_...anything along those lines. He wanted to curl up and sleep for a week, but that wouldn't be fair to Sam, since he had driven most of the way there. So he pulled a Dean Winchester and kept his damn mouth shut about the situation.

Which proved to be a terrible idea, as it usually was when he pulled a Dean Winchester.

An hour and a half into the ride, Dean began to feel unbearably groggy. It was like someone had slipped sleeping pills into his drink and he hadn't realized it. It was a battle just to keep his eyes open. He was trying his utmost best to stay focused on the road, but it was getting pretty damn difficult. He just hoped Sam didn't notice.

Sadly, he did. It wasn't due to the younger Winchester's extreme observance, but more of the fact that they almost crashed headfirst into a telephone pole.

Dean had kept his crap together for about three hours, much to his surprise, and he was slowly, but surely, succumbing to whatever the hell he was going through. Sam was completely absorbed by the map, having been tracking their progress for practically the entire time.

His eyes fluttered towards completely shut for the millionth time, and, finally, Dean couldn't handle it anymore. He allowed his eyelids to slide completely closed, and his head slumped forwards. His hands slipped off the wheel, and the car careened to the right, aimed straight for a pole. Sam immediately jumped into action. He grabbed the steering wheel and veered the Impala in the right direction.

Awkwardly, he eased the car to the side of the road, stepped on the brake, and pulled the lever into park. "Dean!" He gasped out, his heart pounding. Dean was staring straight ahead of him, his green gaze glassy with shock. "What the hell happened, man?" He waited for a reply, but none came. Sam swallowed thickly, confused by Dean's strange behavior. "Look, what's up with you, huh?"

Finally, Dean's eyes drifted slowly to focus on his younger brother's face. "Sick, I guess," He mumbled under his breath.

Sam resisted a groan of irritation. _Sick? Now?_ The thought was exasperated. Sam had to admit that it was perfect timing if Dean _had_ to come down with something...they had just finished a hunt and that meant they could lay low for a time until Dean recovered. But Sam had no choice but to force Dean to switch places with him, and he really had no desire to drive for the rest of the time.

"Come on, man," Sam said finally, releasing a small sigh. "I'm driving. I'm really not in the mood to die today." Dean didn't protest, practically allowing Sam to take control.

When his older brother was properly settled into the passenger seat, Sam started down the road. He cast a nervous glance at his older brother ever now and then, who was listing against the side door with a miserable expression on his face. Sam was thinking rapidly, trying to figure out what was the best thing to do. He didn't feel up to driving for another eight hours, and he doubted Dean would be able to tough it out for that long. So, he made the decision to stop at the next motel they drove past.

When he finally stopped the Impala in the parking lot of a semi-decent looking motel, Dean was sound asleep against the window. After checking in, Sam threw both duffel bags over his shoulder and shook his brother awake. "Hey. Dean, c'mon. We gotta go."

The older Winchester's eyes opened after a moment, glazed with fever. He said nothing, instead nodding slowly before struggling into an upright position. Sam practically had to support him to the motel room. The minute they crossed the threshold, Dean collapsed onto the nearest bed and was asleep almost instantly.

Sam sighed, still unable to push away that inkling of annoyance. A part of him felt guilty...he should be empathetic towards his brother. But if Dean was as sick as he was letting on, that meant that it might be a while until they could take another job. Dean had no reason to lie about his condition...Sam was surprised that he hadn't insisted he was _'fine'_ for longer than he had.

It was only around seven thirty in the evening, so Sam set up his laptop on the table by the window. He wasn't sure what he was going to look at, but he needed _something_ to pass the time. But it sure as hell wasn't going to be taunting himself with possible jobs that he and Dean could have originally taken.

A small part of him...the part that was still angry with Dean about Gadreel...felt that Dean was doing this on purpose. To _make_ Sam feel sorry for him so that they could resolve their differences. Selfish, that's what he was.

Immediately, Sam pushed the thought away. Dean wasn't pretending to be ill, that was clear. But, still, the question loomed in the air…

What could have possibly made Dean sick so fast?

* * *

Castiel remembered sitting...or, more accurately...lying...in the backseat of the Impala, waiting for the Winchesters to return from the warehouse. The pain had died down slightly, leaving him with only a dull throb from most of his injuries. He recalled slowly sinking into the comfort of unconsciousness, and then...it had happened. Happened so quickly that he didn't even have a chance to react.

Castiel wasn't really sure _what_ happened. Just as his eyelids had been drifting closed, darkness had invaded his vision, and he'd been tackled roughly, unsympathetically. His wounds had given a sudden, agonizing flare of pain when they were carelessly jostled. Immediately, a wave of dizziness had come over him, and his head had spun dangerously.

That was when he lost any hold on his consciousness.

The first thought that invaded Castiel's mind when he surfaced completely to awareness was one that he had been told was...what was that word? _Cliché._ But the thought was something that he assumed most in his position would think.

 _Where am I?_

As his perception sharpened and he became less disoriented, the angel realized that whatever blindfold or bag had been thrown over his head had been removed. His eyesight was still hazy, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to clear it to no avail. Even the dim lighting in the room where he was seemed to glare into his eyes, too bright for his liking.

He grimaced, his injuries from the Nephilim's blade stinging as he once more registered their presence. A groan escaped his lips as the stab wound in his abdomen throbbed painfully.

"About time."

The suave, pompous voice broke through the air, familiar to Castiel's ears. It took him a moment to realize who exactly it was in his dazed state, but eventually it came to him. The lofty British accent, the sarcastic undertone…

 _Crowley._

As Cass's vision finally cleared, the King of Hell gradually slid into focus. His posture forever erect, his dark eyes almost amused by Castiel's confusion. "Hello, Cass," The demon's tone was condescendingly snide. "How are you this lovely morning?"

"Crowley..." Castiel growled under his breath. "What the hell do you want?"

"Touchy today, are we now?" Crowley remarked. As he continued, he began to pace back and forth. "I apologize for the unseemly manner of fetching you, but I was quite certain that you would not willingly accept my invitation."

"You guessed right," Castiel responded, his blue eyes reluctantly following the demon's route. He knew Crowley wouldn't capture him to simply torture him...he was tortured enough, even the King of Hell should realize that. Not to mention, Crowley had changed a lot since they had first encountered him four years ago. He wasn't the bloodthirsty, egotistical savage he used to be…

Save the egotistical part, though.

But Crowley had captured him for a reason, and Castiel really wasn't in the mood for the demon to beat around the bush. He wanted to know what exactly the King of Hell expected him to do...even though it was highly unlikely that he would comply. "Tell me what the _hell_ you want," Castiel growled. "Or so help me, I'll..."

"You'll what?" Crowley interrupted, his question clearly rhetorical. _" 'Carve out my heart?',_ as you said before? Or something...possibly _worse_ than that?" His lips curled upwards into a knowing smirk and he stopped pacing. "Don't dilly-dally with unnecessary threats, Cass. Even _you_ should know it's utterly useless." He continued striding back and forth once again, twisting his fingers together behind his back.

Castiel snapped his jaw shut, giving the demon a death glare.

"Moving on," Crowley said dismissively. "Of course, I do understand your interest in being called here. But you could have _held your tongue._ I would naturally have stated my business with you." He smirked at Castiel's irritated expression. "You need to loosen up, old chap. As you can see..." He lifted the edges of his dark trench coat to reveal his inside pockets. "I'm unarmed."

Crowley's patronizing grin remained incessant, much to Castiel's annoyance. Finally, the demon began to get to the point. "I have a small favor to ask of you, Cass. Just a trifle, really...sure you'll be able to fulfill my needs."

Cass glared at the King of Hell, not bothering to respond to him. Crowley had a habit of _'dilly-dallying'_ , as he himself put it. But he always managed to get to the point, however long it took him.

"Don't give me that _look_ , Cass." Crowley chided, sounding much like a parent scolding their disobedient child. "Anyway, cut to the chase..." He continued. "I need you to be my personal...watchman, if you will. You'll be keeping an eye on the other two Stooges, _the Winchesters_ , for me. I recently put an experiment into play, and my.. _.inside man_...will be soon finding it difficult to report to me on a regular basis. So, naturally, I thought of you. Castiel, the Winchesters' wing man... _literally."_

"What are you doing, Crowley?" Castiel growled, unconsciously squinting his eyes in half-confusion, half-bitterness. What could Crowley possibly want with the Winchesters? Somewhere inside him, he felt fear growing within his gut. The demon was powerful and vindictive, and however... _ordinary..._ he might seem, he was still a threat.

"Oh, whatever I want," Crowley responded, smirking. After a pause, he spoke again. "Your job is quite simple, if I must say so myself. All I need you to do for me is keep a closer eye on Sam and Dean than usual...specifically Dean. Then report back to me."

"And why would I do this for you?" Castiel asked incredulously. If Crowley truly believed that he would easily carry out what he asked of him without a fight, then apparently Castiel didn't know the demon as well as he thought he did.

"Oh, I have my ways, Cass, believe me," Crowley answered with a sly smile still plastered onto his face. "I'm not stupid. You should realize that by now."

Castiel took a breath, rapidly trying to think of a response. "Is that so? I'm assuming you're now completely withdrawn from the effects of the human blood? From what I remember, you'd taken to injecting it."

Crowley's patronizing grin was wiped straight off his face at Castiel's words. "I'm over that." He said seriously, his tone cold and bitter. "The rightful King of Hell doesn't squander his time binging on _human blood."_ He almost spat out the words. It was clearly a sensitive topic for him. But once he finished his sentence, his sophisticated wall was back up. "Anyway, as I said... _I have my ways._ You _will_ do this for me, or you _and_ the two Hardy boys be killed before you even have a chance to get away."

Castiel remained silent, chewing his lip continuously. It had become a habit in precarious situations when he had been human, and it had happened to stick with him. Not that that was the worst of his problems at the moment. He had to admit, Crowley was the prime example of dogged determination...must to his dismay. This jackass wasn't going to give him a choice in the matter. So, Castiel said the only thing he could.

"Fine. I'll do it."


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

Dean was getting progressively worse.

Sam knew that Dean would never straight-out tell him that, but it was clear as day. Dean's main symptom was grogginess, which Sam was secretly grateful for. There were plenty of other major illness side effects that his brother could have been going through, such as a runny nose and nausea...

Sam really wasn't in the mood to deal with snot and vomit. Even if it would be to help his brother, Sam still preferred sitting around, waiting for Dean to wake up.

The Winchesters were currently residing in their third motel since they had left Durham. Although Dean had insisted they keep going, Sam always made sure to stop at a semi-decent place whenever his brother started looking rather queasy. He had to admit, not his favorite thing to do, but he didn't want to risk Dean getting worse. And he would, eventually, if he didn't take care of himself properly.

Sam drummed his fingertips on the wooden table he lounged by. The chair he sat on was uncomfortable and stiff-backed, but he didn't care.

Dean was currently deeply asleep sprawled out in his bed, fully clothed. He didn't even have the strength change now. Sam was simply waiting for him to wake up. He'd been out for almost three hours now, and Sam was not only anxious to hit the road, but unease was slowly worming its way into his brain.

This wasn't normal. Even though it'd been quite a while since Dean had been sick, Sam knew for a fact that his brother, however ill he got, would take every chance he got to complain. It was just... _Dean._ But not now. For the past…he didn't know how many hours, Sam had been seeing Dean's closed lids more than his eyes. And, frankly, he was confused, if not slightly concerned.

In the back of his mind, he still held onto the possibility that Dean was playing him. Although his logical side told him continuously that he was being stupid, and, not to mention, selfish, he still found himself unable to discard that inkling of suspicion.

A part of him didn't want to.

His own _brother_ had betrayed him. He had been _prepared_ to die. Hell, he'd been in the midst of making a deal with _Death,_ the friggin' _Horseman of the Apocalypse._ And then Dean had interrupted him, tricked him into allowing an angel to possess his body so he would _live,_ exactly what he didn't want. That one selfish move of his brother's had cost them their prophet, who had been as close to family as Cass.

Sam still had nightmares, watching himself kill Kevin over and over again without having control of his body. The loss of the young prophet still cut through him like a razor-sharp, flaming hot knife. But Dean wasn't trying to win back his brother's affections using pity. It just... _wasn't him._

Was it?

* * *

 _"I'm hitting it."_

 _Dean looked up at Sam, his heart pounding in his chest. There were so many things he wanted to say to his brother, but...how could he possibly figure out how to phrase them without the younger Winchester exploding like he had done already? So, he did what he always did. He winged it in a half a second._

 _"Yeah," Dean responded awkwardly. "Hey." He added before Sam could leave._

 _"Yeah?" Sam's voice held an undertone of caution, as if he were unconsciously warning his older brother not to step too far out of line._

 _Dean directed his gaze at the glass of whiskey in his hand, unwilling to look his brother in the eye. "About what you said the other day..." He trailed off, unsure of how to say what he planned to._

 _Sam leaned against the doorframe, giving Dean an inquisitive look. But there was an aura of sarcasm around him as he replied. "I thought that didn't bother you." His younger brother's statement was almost mocking._

 _Dean ignored him. "You know, Sam, I saved your hide back there," Dean's voice was low and husky as he spoke. "And I saved your hide at that church...and the hospital. I may not think things all the way through. Okay? But what I do, I do because it's the right thing." He fell silent, waiting for Sam's answer. When his brother remained quiet, staring at Dean with a brooding look on his face, Dean continued, picking up his glass for another sip of whiskey. "I'd do it again." He added, matter-of-factly._

 _Finally, after a pause, Sam replied. "And that...is the problem." The younger Winchester allowed his words to sink into Dean's mind before speaking again. "You think you're my savior...my brother, the hero. You swoop in, and even when you mess up, you...think what you're doing is worth it because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad...but you're not."_

 _Dean stared at him blankly, allowing his words to sink in with silent, controlled dignity. He wanted to say something, to_ do _something to persuade his brother that he was wrong. But...was it possible that Sam was right?_

 _"I mean, Kevin's dead, Crowley's in the wind," Sam went on, his voice becoming angrier with every syllable he spoke. "We're no closer to beating this angel thing. Please tell me...what is the_ upside _of me being alive?"_

 _Mild shock flooded through Dean. He didn't even bother to think through whether or not Sam's question had been rhetorical. "You kidding me? You and me - fighting the good fight together." In the heat of the moment, Dean didn't give flying crap about how corny his words sounded...because they were true._

 _Sam huffed out a harsh sigh of frustration, and turned to leave. He almost did, but then he thought better of it and swiveled around. "Okay." He said, stalking over to the table where his older brother sat. Dean unconsciously leaned back as Sam sat down. "Just once...be honest with me. You didn't save me...for me. You did it for you."_

What the hell does he mean by that? _That thought was the first that ran through Dean's mind when Sam spoke those words. "What are you talking about?" He asked, his eyes wide as he focused on his brother's face._

 _"I was ready to die, I was ready," Sam responded. "I_ should _have died, but_ you... _you didn't want to be alone." Sam let his words hang in the air for a moment, and Dean tilted his head, practically gawking at him in confusion. "And that's what all this boils down to, you can't stand the thought of being alone."_

 _"All right." Dean interrupted Sam, drawing back and climbing to his feet._

 _Sam barely gave him a chance to get a word in, sounding increasingly angrier. "I'll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrificing...as long as you're not the one being hurt."_

 _Dean was finding it rather difficult to keep his cool. Was that what Sam thought? Was that_ really _what his own brother assumed about him? He saved his life back there - hell, Sam even stopped the Trials once Dean convinced him not to. He hadn't been willing to die then. Now it was suddenly different? Dean felt the need to prove Sam wrong, to show him that he wasn't just doing it for himself. "All right, you want to be honest?" Dean began. "If the situation were reversed...and I was dying, you'd do the same thing."_

 _There was a short pause while Dean waited with bated breath. Finally, Sam spoke, his voice soft, yet not guilty. "No, Dean." He answered with a minuscule shake of his head. "I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I..." He trailed off for a millisecond, meeting Dean's shocked gaze. "I wouldn't." Dean stared at him, his eyes wide with disbelief. There was a long silence between the two Winchesters before Sam broke it. "I'm gonna get to bed."_

 _And before he knew it, Sam was out the door. Dean blinked slowly, looking after his brother, both distress and devastation growing in his gut. He was nauseated by Sam's words..._

No, Dean. I wouldn't.

* * *

Dean was still asleep after five hours, and, frankly, Sam was getting worried. It wasn't like Dean to sleep for this long without stirring. Sam had passed out for about an hour after Dean had fallen asleep, exhausted from the wait. By the time he woke up, Dean was still under.

Sam would have tried waking his brother earlier, but Dean had been struggling so much lately, what with the Mark, and sleep would do him good. But now, Sam concluded that it was best to wake him.

So, with the best intentions in mind, Sam strode to his brother's motionless form and rested a hand on his shoulder. He shook it gently, and, much to Sam's surprise, Dean inhaled slowly, shifted so his face wasn't buried in his pillow, and opened his eyes. They were unfortunately still glazed with fever and something else Sam couldn't identify. Was that...distress? Something along those lines?

"Dean?" Sam asked slowly, confused as his brother stared at him with such dismay. "You okay, man?"

Dean swallowed harshly and nodded. "Y-yeah. Fine." He responded, struggling into a sitting position. "How long was I...how long was I out?" He looked up at him with tired eyes, and Sam felt suddenly guilty for waking him.

"'Bout five hours." Sam admitted. "You feeling better, man? I think it's time to hit the road."

His older brother nodded slowly, shakily climbing to his feet. "True that," He responded, pulling on his jacket and crossing his arms over his chest for warmth. He felt chilled to the bone and exhausted, which he found pretty damn bizarre, regarding the fact that he had slept for longer than he usually needed to each night. He secured the laces of his boots and grabbed hold of his duffel before looking to Sam. "Let's go. You check out."

Dean expected his head to clear when he stepped out into the cold, bright air, but it did nothing of the kind. Instead, the cool outside atmosphere only made his head throb more. But he didn't care.

His dream was still fresh in mind...Sam's angry claims, his confession that he wouldn't have done the same if the situation had been reversed. Dean still found it hard to believe. Over the years, he and Sam had sacrificed so much for each other. And Sam said he was selfish. Now that Sam's words had sunk in for a few weeks, Dean was beginning to feel resentment.

 _You are certainly willing to do the sacrificing...as long as you're not the one being hurt._

Dean gritted his teeth. How could Sam say that? If he hadn't been so shocked in that one moment, he would have reminded Sam of the time he had been tortured in _Hell._ Just so that Sam could live. He wouldn't exactly call that _'not being hurt'._

Angrily, Dean stormed to the passenger door of the Impala and slid into the seat. He slammed the door shut and glared at a random point on the ground. The least his brother could be was _grateful._ He smacked his palm on the dashboard, as if it would help something, but all his actions rewarded him with was a red and throbbing hand.

Annoyed, Dean stuck his hand into his pocket and fumbled for his flask. After taking a long swig of whiskey, he savored the burn of the liquor sliding down his throat. He knew for a fact that Sam wouldn't approve of him drinking while sick, but he didn't give a crap what his brother thought. The last time he'd been sick was when he was twelve or something...how the hell would Sam know what was good for him?

As Dean spotted Sam emerging from the front lobby of the motel, he dug out his massive headphones and slapped them over his ears, blocking out any outside noise. He switched on the classic rock music that he had loved since before he could remember, allowing it to completely fill his ears. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.

Vaguely, Dean heard his brother speaking to him, but he pretended he hadn't caught what Sam had said. As the Impala's engine revved and the car started down the road, Dean was lulled into a dreamless unconsciousness.

Hopefully it would stay that way.

* * *

When he finally awakened, it was to Sam's hand on his shoulder. He grunted, lifting his head and realizing that his headphones were now rather lopsided. He pulled them off and blinked a few times. "We back?" He mumbled, running a hand over his eyes.

"Yeah," Sam responded, opening the Impala's passenger door wider.

Dean stumbled out and headed to the stairwell leading down to the bunker's entrance. All he wanted to do was sleep for a week, but he wasn't sure if he could. His mind felt alert and wide awake, but his body ached with exhaustion. He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs once he crossed the threshold, taking in the familiar view of the bunker. He started when Sam's voice sounded from behind him.

"You want something to eat?"

Dean glanced back at his brother and shook his head. "Nah, I'm good," Before Sam had a chance to reply, Dean was at the bottom of the staircase and heading out of the bunker's main room.

When Dean entered his room, his legs collapsed beneath him, and he half-crawled to the edge of his bed and hoisted himself upwards. For a short while, he lay sprawled lopsidedly on the edge of the mattress, thinking. This was plain bizarre. It didn't seem like he was sick, just... _tired._ His head throbbed slightly, but he could feel that it was simply due to his inexplicable exhaustion.

His body temperature constantly felt like it was changing, which was another sign of illness that Dean would normally have decided to ignore. But now...he didn't know what to regard.

The pain in his head began to sharpen as he strained his brain too far. So, with a sigh of irritation, he dragged his body up to where his head rested on the pillow. The minute his eyelids shut, he was lost in unconsciousness once more.

This was getting friggin' annoying.

* * *

"Hello, Sam."

Castiel was surprised by how level his voice sounded as he greeted the younger Winchester. Only he could hear the lacing of guilt that his tone held within it. He strode to where Sam sat at the table in the bunker's library.

"Hey, Cass," Sam responded, looking up in mild surprise. "You're looking considerably better." His hazel eyes scanned the angel's partially-healed wounds approvingly.

"I'm feeling better, too," Castiel said, replying as he knew he should. His blue gaze surveyed the area quizzically. "Where's Dean?"

"Uh...passed out," Sam answered. "He's not feeling too hot. I checked on him about a half an hour ago, and he was down under." He closed his laptop and stood up, checking up on his friend's injuries. "Not so bad." He muttered, half to himself.

"Dean's ill?" Castiel inquired, raising his eyebrows. Never, in the five years he had known the hunter, had he gotten seriously sick. And that was saying something. He knew Dean well enough to be able to safely say that if he had been feeling off, he would keep it to himself. It wasn't normal for Dean to admit it so freely. "And he told you?" He added, wondering if Sam could answer his question.

As if reading his mind, Sam replied. "Not willingly, of course. He fell asleep behind the wheel, almost crashed the Impala. It was a close call."

Castiel didn't answer, thinking hard. Was this Crowley's doing? He wouldn't doubt it...but he knew for a fact that the King of Hell wouldn't simply cause Dean to contract an illness. If Crowley had planned this, then Dean's inexplicable sickness was something much more than what it seemed. He had to figure out what it was before it got worse.

"Mind if I see how he's doing?" Cass inquired slowly, trying to make his statement casual. He didn't want Sam to become suspicious...no use in dragging him into this mess.

"Uh...no," Sam replied, gesturing widely towards the hallway where Dean's room was. "Go ahead. But if he's still under, try not to wake him up, or he'll be pissed. Plus, in my honest opinion, he needs the rest."

"Of course." Castiel said, heading down the corridor as Sam settled back into his chair with a bored look on his face.

The angel tread softly, trying to heed Sam's advice. When he reached Dean's door, he did his utmost best to silently pulled it open. The hinges let out a quiet creak, but it didn't wake the older Winchester, whose sleeping form was revealed when Castiel pushed open the door.

Cass rushed hurriedly to Dean's side, not wanting to waste a minute of time when something terrible could be happened to Dean. He gently pressed two fingers to the hunter's forehead, closing his own eyes as he did so.

Immediately, Dean's internal thoughts and dreams flooded into Castiel's brain, filled with turmoil and devastated loss. Cass pulled his hand back with unease. Only one, befuddled thought ran through his mind...

 _What the hell had Crowley done to Dean?_

* * *

Castiel didn't even bother to bid farewell to Sam before he left the bunker.

What Dean had been dreaming about...it wasn't normal. The scene inside the hunter's mind had been so vivid...so _detailed._ It had almost seemed as if Dean was living through it for a _second time._

Castiel knew about dreams. He knew every nook and corner of a human's mind. As he should, too. Back when he had been a loyal soldier of God...serving under Anna, when she had been his direct superior, of course...and then eventually Zachariah...his garrison had specialized in what he supposed humans would call ' _dream-walking'._

It was something most angels were trained to do so it could be performed efficiently while fulfilling an order. To slip quietly into a human's mind to either deliver a message, which was usually the case, or to simply _'eavesdrop'_ on their dreams or thoughts to gain the information needed.

Not every garrison dealt with direct information from an individual human...the majority were just considered by the angels as smaller beings then themselves who needed to be protected. But whenever Castiel received a task, he carried it out without question, as he had been trained to do.

Chills never failed to go through Castiel's body when he thought about his past self. Everlastingly loyal, fulfilling every duty he was given without even caring about hurting people. He had never realized how heartless he had been until he turned his back on Heaven.

But he wasn't like that anymore.

Castiel shook away his thoughts and once more looked down at the older Winchester's motionless form.

 _I'll fix this, Dean._

Within seconds, he was gone.

* * *

 _Dean stared at Sam, an intense look in his green eyes. "The angel lied to me. Okay? He...he's not who he said he was. He said his name was Ezekiel. Cool guy, according to Cass, but it's not Ezekiel."_

 _"Well, then who is he?" Sam asked, a half-angry, half-nervous tremor slipping into his tone._

 _"I don't know." Dean growled. When he spoke again, his own voice was trembling slightly. "Apparently Ezekiel is dead. Whoever this guy is, he can end you in a heartbeat if he wants to, so you have got to dump him." The words flew out of Dean's mouth so fast that Sam looked as if he barely understood what his brother was saying._

 _There was a long pause between the two Winchesters where Sam exhaled sharply a few times, mulling over the newfound information. "Are you hearing what I'm saying!?" Dean demanded. "I think you're well enough now, but you_ gotta _expel him. Sam?" His younger brother was standing frozen, breathing heavily. After a beat, he strode past Dean. "Sam-" As the younger Winchester began to open the door to leave, Dean turned tail and started towards him. "Hey."_

 _And then it happened. So fast that Dean didn't even have time to think. One minute he was facing Sam, waiting for a response, then he saw a fist flying towards his face, and everything went black._

 _But it didn't last long._

 _Again, it was as if the world was put on fast-forward. One moment he was lying unconscious on the floor, and the next, he was stalking into the bunker's library to the sound of Kevin's screams._

 _"No!" Dean yelled out, his eyes wide with horror as he stared at the white light flooding from the young prophet's shocked gaze. "No, no, no!_ Kevin!" _Dean rushed forward just as Kevin's body collapsed to the ground. But before he could reach him, Sam's hand lashed outward and Dean was thrown back against the wall._

 _"Sam?" Dean groaned, hoping with all his heart that his brother was still in there somewhere._

 _The man he thought was his brother slowly turned to face him. "There is no more Sam." He said monotonously. Dean gasped out in pain, unable to lay his eyes on Kevin's dead body. "But I played him convincingly, I thought." The angel continued._

 _Confusion flowed through Dean, clouding his mind. How in the hell did this angel resist the sigil he'd used in an attempt to knock him out so he could reach Sam? Was he really that powerful? "How did you...?"_

 _"I heard you talk with Kevin Tran tonight," He responded, guessing what Dean meant. He began packing a backpack as he spoke. Dean strained against the invisible force that held him painfully against the wall as the angel slipped the angel tablet into the bag._

 _"Alter a sigil, even the slightest..." He trailed off. "Alter the spell." He turned to face Dean and lifted up his hand, displaying the dust of markings on his fingers. "Sorry about Kevin, but ultimately...it's for the best. I did what I had to." He strode slowly towards Kevin's motionless body and placed a yellow card on his chest. As Dean looked closer, he saw the small words written on it..._

Kevin Tran.

 _The angel once more looked at Dean, his expression identical to one that Sam would make, but still so different. And then he was gone, out the door, taking Dean's little brother along with him._

 _As the angel left, Dean was finally released, and he gasped out, collapsing to the floor. He slowly lifted his gaze to Kevin, whose dead, burned-out eyes, which were still smoking, stared straight back at him, lifeless. The door to the bunker shut._

 _"Kevin?"_

 _Dean asked quietly, as if by some miracle the young prophet would come back to him. After a pause, he spoke again, uttering the same devastated word._

 _"Kevin?"_

 _His pointless hopes were not fulfilled. Kevin remained still and dead._

 _A single tear slipped down Dean's cheek._

* * *

When Dean opened his eyes, that tear was still there.

He sat up, disoriented, and slowly touched the point on his face where the small streak of moisture was resting. He pulled his hand back and inspected his finger, his brow creased in confusion...

Why was he crying?

He hadn't even dreamed about anything.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

To say that Dean felt ten times sicker than he had for the past day or two was putting it mildly.

When he had awakened shortly after they'd arrived back at the bunker, he had gotten violently sick in the nearest trash can. Shamefully, he'd cleaned it out afterwards, making sure not to attract Sam's attention. He still wasn't sure how his brother was taking his sudden illness. And, frankly, he didn't want to know. There had been so much friction between him and Sam lately that he was reluctant to even let the younger Winchester care for him even a little.

Anyway, he had never enjoyed being treated like he was weak.

Now, Dean sat on the floor by his bed, shivering relentlessly with a trash can by his side. His stomach churned uncomfortably, but he held his breath, unwilling to hurl again just yet. It was more unpleasant than he had remembered from a few years ago, when he had puked up that damn cursed Italian jalapeno sandwich on a case. It may have been a curse, but it had been much more bearable than what he was dealing with now.

He had a killer headache, but he couldn't force himself to sleep any longer. Sure, he was exhausted, yet only physically...not mentally. But he knew that sooner or later, he would inevitably pass out again. It was bizarre, and normally he'd be hitting the books by now. But Dean felt too crappy to even attempt to think about anything too complex.

Dean let out a harsh cough that racked his lungs and crossed his arms tighter against his chest, tucking his head into his lap. He felt strangely different when he was sick...kind of like he was a kid again. He was well aware that there had been times before his mother's death where he'd been sick as a toddler, and Mary had looked after him.

Dean scarcely remembered his mother from when he had been a child. Years before that, yes, when he'd been zapped into the past by a couple of crazy angels once or twice. But, other than that, he could scarcely recollect what her face had looked like. Thankfully, though, he did recall small snatches of his childhood...before everything had gone haywire…

His mother's laughter, the kiss his father would plant on her cheek whenever he came home...but mostly her voice. Her soft, loving voice gently singing _"Hey, Jude"_ for him each night, and her small, sincere promise that she would whisper every time he fell asleep. And now, as the inexplicable sickness slowly dragged Dean towards sleep once more, his mother's words echoed in his ears, a ghostly memory…

 _Angels are watching over you._

* * *

Sam was on edge now. He hadn't seen Dean since yesterday afternoon, and Cass hadn't returned from when he'd disappeared down the hallway to see how the older Winchester was holding up. For a while, Sam wasn't willing to check on Dean, for fear that he would wake his brother. He still wasn't...having to deal with a pissed off Dean Winchester wasn't something he was feeling up to.

He was sitting in the very same chair he'd been in when Castiel had paid a visit earlier, sipping aimlessly on a beer and surfing the web. He knew he was just taunting himself...he'd run across four possible jobs that they would have normally taken. But since Dean was sick, there was no way that they would be able to take even one of them. Sam was looking still only due to the fact that if he, by some miracle, found a typical salt-and-burn close by, he could be there and back in a few hours at most.

But at the moment, Sam wasn't sure what would be reasonable for him to do. _Should_ he be taking care of his brother? He really didn't want to, since he would be completely at a loss for how he would handle the situation by himself. Hell, he'd been only eight the last time he'd cared for Dean, and even then he'd been scared out of his mind. Now he was an adult, but he still practically had the same knowledge as he had had when he was a kid. If it was a somewhat serious injury, Sam could handle it, no problem. But not this.

Sam was practically halfway gone, focusing mostly on his thoughts than his surroundings. So when a bloodcurdling scream sounded from deep within the bunker, it took him a minute to gather his thoughts. The same yell sounded, more intense than before, and this time, as Sam gradually departed from the depths of his mind, it seemed frighteningly familiar.

 _Dean._

Sam slammed his beer down on the table and was halfway to Dean's bedroom before he even had time to process what he was doing. As he neared the door, his older brother burst out into the hallway, coughing harshly. "Dean?" Sam rushed to him and grabbed his shoulders before he had to chance to collapse to the floor. "Hey, man, you okay?"

Dean was soaked in sweat and shaking uncontrollably, his breathing erratic as he slowly slid to the ground. Sam bent down as Dean fell onto his knees, holding onto his brother's shoulders to keep him upright. "Dean. Talk to me, dude. What's wrong?"

Although Dean looked as if he could barely summon a rational thought, he looked up at his brother with fever-glazed eyes, clearly annoyed by the entire situation. "Dammit, man, this blows." He grumbled, his voice unnaturally low and sounding as if it hurt to even utter a syllable. "What do you _think_ is wrong? I feel like crap on toast. Probably look like it, too."

"Right on that one." Sam muttered under his breath, furrowing his eyebrows as he observed Dean's face, which was deathly pale, every inch of his skin covered in beads of sweat. "Dean...I thought I heard you...did you...scream?"

"What?" Dean turned to face him, a questioning look on his face. "No. What do you think this is?" He scoffed. " _The Shining?_ I can barely talk as it is."

"Well, I thought..." Sam trailed off, his attempt to defend himself seeming to have no impact on his brother, who raised his eyebrows with an almost amused expression on his face.

"Sammy, either you're getting sick too, or just hearing things." Dean seemed to just now register what position he was in. "Get off me." He pushed his brother away and awkwardly staggered to his feet. "Ah...dammit," He groaned, clutching his forehead. "Head rush." He let out a breathy, unamused chuckle that clearly suggested he was simply trying to make Sam think that he wasn't as bad as he looked.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam said, grabbing the older Winchester's shoulders in an attempt to support him. "I gotcha."

"'m _fine,"_ Dean retorted, shoving him away. "Don't lie to me, Dean," Sam retorted. "How are you doing?"

The older Winchester shot Sam a death glare. "How does it _look_ like I'm doing, genius?" He snapped. "I'm pissed because I'm starving my friggin' _ass off."_

"Well, you could always eat something..." Sam trailed off when he took note of the dark expression on his brother's face. "Listen, man, I think the best thing you can do is just sleep. Okay?" _And that'll prevent you from harassing me._ He added inwardly. Sam had never known that Dean could get so sour and irritable when he was sick, and, frankly, he wasn't enjoying it. A small part of Sam still wondered what had caused Dean to bust out of his room so suddenly...it had almost seemed as if he was spooked by something. But he failed to mention it.

"'Not sleepin' anymore, 'm not tired..." Dean's protest was ironically followed by a jaw-cracking yawn. The older Winchester immediately stifled it before stalking towards the library, his footsteps heavy and clumsy. "'m gonna try and find a job..." He coughed harshly into the crook of his arm and stumbled, clutching the edge of the table for balance.

Dean felt like utter crap. Although he hadn't eaten anything for a day or two, he still felt like he was going to blow chunks. But not in front of Sam. Dean didn't care whether his younger brother knew he was sick or not. He sure as hell wasn't going to sit around on his ass feeling sorry for himself. He wanted to be out hunting, doing his damn job. Or better yet, getting a lead on Abaddon and the First Blade and ripping that bitch a new one.

Dean's hands trembled as he opened the lid to his laptop. "Dude..." He said slowly. "Can you get me some pie?"

Sam gave his older brother an exasperated look. "Dean, you're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Dean demanded, his expression sour.

"I don't know if that's a good idea, man..." Sam trailed off as he noted the look on his brother's face. He should've seen it in the first place...if Dean Winchester wanted something, he was a stubborn son of a bitch. "Fine, whatever. But it's your funeral if you hurl."

Dean gave him a forced cheeky grin before coughing so hard into the crook of his arm that Sam could've sworn that he was going to hack up a lung. "I'll, uh...come with..." He said, struggling to his feet "Need to make sure y' don't f'rget..." Dean managed to stay upright after walking a few steps, but soon enough he tripped into his brother's arms, coincidentally reminding Sam of a toddler learning to walk.

He decided not to mention that to Dean.

"I don't think so, Dean," Sam chided gently, straining the muscles in his arms to lift his brother up and settle him into a chair. "You can barely stand as it is." He only let go when he was for certain that the older Winchester could stay upright on his own.

"Sam." Dean said seriously, speaking with more clarity than he had since he had come out of his room. "I need to get outta here, get some fresh air." He stared up at his younger sibling with absolute certainty, the look in his green eyes almost pleading.

Sam sighed, allowing an uncomfortable silence to ensue, before nodding. "Okay." He said reluctantly. "C'mon, man, I'll help you." He laced an arm around Dean's torso and slung his brother's arm around his neck. Dean attempted to struggle, but only for a few moments. Once he realized that it was useless to fight back, he simply stumbled along, embarrassed, yet thankful for his brother's support.

He'd never felt like this before. So weak, so... _helpless._ It was plain bizarre. It was very rare for _Sam_ to be taking care of him. It had been the other way around for as long as he could remember. Ever since Dean had been young, it had basically been a daily command from his father…

 _Watch out for Sammy._

And Dean had stayed true to that. Always. It had never been a task he was reluctant to do. For a long while, he felt responsible for the kid. Unfortunately, he still did, to Sam's displeasure. The younger Winchester had never flat-out told him, but Dean had a sinking feeling that Sam wasn't grateful for his older brother's constant efforts to watch out for him. That he could... _take care of himself._

Yeah, sure. All that rewarded him with lately was a hospital bed and visit from Death.

Dean still regretted not being able to prevent Sam from completing the first Trial. If it had been him, then they wouldn't be in this mess right now. Damn, Dean hated fighting with his brother. But now he couldn't help but think…

 _If it had been him…_

What would have happened? How would he have dealt with it? The skyrocketing temperatures, coughing up blood, resonating while being in the proximity of Metatron, the Scribe of God? And, also, the biggest question...how would he have reacted to... _the final sacrifice?_

Him?

If he had been the one to complete the Trials, and he was in the same position as Sam, Dean was quite certain that he would have sacrificed himself for the greater good, just as his brother had attempted to do. But...would Sam have done what he had done? Trick him into being possessed by an angel so he would live? He had told Dean that he wouldn't, but had he simply been lying to... _win_ the argument in a way?

Would Sam have gone out of his way, just as Dean had done, to save him?

* * *

"Crowley." Castiel growled as he appeared before the King of Hell with a flutter of great, yet broken, wings. "What have you done?"

The demon stroked his beard, his elbow propped up on the arm of his throne. "Cass. Lovely to see you, as always," He waved a hand at his waiting advisors, who appeared to be rather bewildered by Castiel's sudden appearance in their master's throne room. "You're dismissed." Crowley said to them, as if it was obvious that they should have gotten the cue.

Once the demons had taken their leave, Cass straightened into an erect posture, glaring at Crowley with menace in his blue eyes. "What _exactly_ are you trying to do?" He still glared at the King of Hell as he strode few paces forward, his stance suggesting that he was attempting to appear intimidating, even though he was quite aware that it would most likely be to no avail.

"You care to elaborate?" Crowley pressed, looking almost annoyed as he gestured for him to continue speaking. "Listen, Cass, you can't simply flutter in here and expect me to know what you're prattling on about."

"Why _else_ do you think I would come to you, Crowley?" Cass demanded. "It's Dean."

"Ah, Squirrel," The King of Hell smirked patronizingly. "I hope he's doing well?" He let out a dry chuckle, furthermore confirming Castiel's beliefs about how Crowley was undeniably imperious. Before Castiel had a chance to respond to Crowley's contemptuous statement, the demon spoke. "Oh, don't bother with the details, Cass. I am already aware of the logistics, of course. And, judging from your behavior, everything is going completely as planned."

"Cr—" Castiel was abruptly cut off by a blast of rather... _inappropriate..._ music. Crowley's ringtone. He opened and closed his mouth, listening intently to the lyrics. "What is that...' _Sir Mix a_ _Lot_ '?" The disgusted words left his mouth before he had a chance to stifle them.

Crowley looked up in mild surprise. "It is, in fact. _'Baby Got Back',_ to be more specific. Seems you are worth _something,_ at least. You have a remarkable taste in music." Castiel grimaced, but said nothing. The King of Hell chuckled darkly before returning his gaze to the screen of his phone. "I have to take this. Lovely chat, though, Cass, keep me updated." With those words, he accepted the call.

But just before the King of Hell had answered the call and Castiel had departed, a cold sweat filtered through through the angel's body as he caught a glimpse of the name on the caller ID...

 _'Moose'._

* * *

"You couldn't have chosen someplace more cheerful, pet?" Crowley inquired, scanning the filthy Lebanon, Kansas alleyway while disdainfully scraping the street debris from the sole of his shoe. "This place is dreadfully dismal."

"I apologize if it doesn't suit your tastes, your Majesty," The voice that responded was male and moderately lofty. "But it was the only location I could choose without my selection becoming suspicious." A tall form, black eyes prominent, emerged from the shadows, appearing rather mysterious and unnerving, but it was clear that Crowley was not at all fazed by the sudden arrival.

The King of Hell turned to face the intimidating figure just as he stepped into the fading light of the setting sun. "Oh, don't bother with the formalities, darling," Crowley chided. "Blimey, love," He added, sounding vaguely nonplussed. "I can scarcely recognize you in this particular chap's meatsuit."

The demon looked down at his body. "Being male _is_ rather bizarre," He admitted. "But I'm adapting, of course." His tone suggested nothing but the highest respect. "Meeting you today was a stretch. It's difficult to push my host into the direction I need him to go. He simply won't leave your..." The demon trailed off, as if at a loss for words.

 _"Bestie,"_ Crowley supplied after an awkward pause. "He's my bestie. Or haven't you heard?"

"I've heard, sir." The demon responded, sounding rather uncomfortable. "But, your Majesty...what exactly is so special about him? From what I've seen lately, he's nothing more than a complaining, stubborn...bastard." He hesitated on the last word, as if he were worried he had spoken his opinion too freely.

Crowley awarded him with a withering glare, but replied nonetheless. "Well, I must admit you're right...he is quite difficult at times..." Crowley laced his fingers together behind his back and began to pace back and forth. "But, believe me, love, he's the only one who I can rely on. After this has all come to fruition, we _will_ create the perfect Hell."

"I don't doubt it, sir," The demon said respectfully. There was a pause before he spoke again. "I am aware that this operation takes time and patience, that the disease will strengthen gradually. But...is it possible that something could go wrong?"

Crowley stopped pacing and turned to look the demon in the eye. "Well, that's the beauty of it, isn't it, pet? We don't know." He smiled maliciously. "The only way _to_ know is to get inside his body. Which is, of course, impossible." His grin widened, changing into an expression that could be described as _'sly'._ Someone who didn't know any better would assume that Crowley was joking...that he truly did have a way to _get inside his body._

But the demon wasn't fooled. He knew the King of Hell well enough to know that he wasn't hiding any tricks up his sleeve. Sure, he liked to _pretend_ he did, but it wasn't often the case.

"But, yes," Crowley continued. "We must have a _'Plan B'_ if something does, indeed, go wrong. And, truthfully, it's quite simple."

"What is this... _simple solution?"_ The demon inquired, creasing his brow.

Crowley maintained his wily, cunning smirk. "Isn't it obvious, love?" He stepped closer to him, ignoring their vessel's massive height difference. Soon enough, he stood right before the demon, eyes almost level with the other's nose. His next words were controlled and intense.

 _"Use the Blade."_

* * *

"Dean, wake up."

Slowly, Dean surfaced to consciousness from the depths of sleep. He felt unbelievably groggy, almost as if he had been drugged. But, obviously, it wasn't that. It was just his damn sickness.

The minute he cracked open both eyelids, he immediately wanted to close them again. Nausea rushed into his gut at lightning speed, and his head pounded with every movement he made. He had almost forgotten what had awakened him and was gradually drifting towards unconsciousness once more when his brother's voice sounded again, a hint of annoyance now laced into his tone.

" _Dean._ Come on, we're back...and you're drooling on your baby." He lied in an attempt to get his brother up and moving.

It worked. Dean shifted instantly, moving to wipe the nonexistent drool from his chin. When he realized that Sam had been trolling him, he scowled and struggled into a sitting position. "Shuddup," He grumbled, running a hand wearily over his eyes.

Sam smirked and grabbed the older Winchester's shoulders. "Come on." He repeated. "Or do you want to sleep in the car?"

"Not sleepin' anymore, Sammy," Dean insisted. He was silent for a second as he grappled in vain for the reason why they had gone out. When it finally came to him, he seemed to physically and mentally brighten. "Did you 'member the pie?"

"Yes, I remembered the pie," Sam sighed, glad for Dean's sudden burst of energy. "Let's go," His older sibling made no move to get up. "Jerk."

That at least invigorated Dean to attempt to respond. "Bitch." He finally was able to swing his legs around and connect them to the cement floor of the bunker's garage. But the minute he tried to stand up, he stumbled and practically fell against Sam's chest.

"Dean!" Sam caught his brother before he had a chance to collapse to the ground. "Hey, hey, hey, man, you okay?" Dean was slipping away fast, Sam could see it in the older Winchester's fading green eyes. " _Dean."_ He repeated. "C'mon, please. Stay awake! You've _got_ to stay awake!" He could tell that his attempts were useless, Dean was already half-conscious. "Man, look at me!"

Dean was aware enough to hear his younger sibling's words and slowly lift his head, which felt as heavy as lead. And what his gradually closing eyelids were met with caused shock to ricochet through his body. Later, when he came to, he would blame the delirium, but now...it felt as real as ever…

For a split second, Sam's normally hazel eyes had flashed a shade as black as night.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

Sam had never thought that it would come to this. Sitting beside Dean's bedside...as if it were his deathbed. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on knotted fingers. Sam felt queasy, almost as if he himself were going to hurl. The last time he'd been in this position was years ago, after a car crash caused by a demon working for the hot Yellow-Eyed Demon, Azazel.

Dean had been comatose, and, unbeknownst to Sam until he had vaguely heard his brother's voice in the air, his spirit had been milling around the hospital for the entire time before he woke up. But Dean hadn't remembered his, as Sam was sure he would call it, _'freaky ass out-of-body experience'_ until the Reaper, Tessa, who had tried to convince him to move on, appeared a few years later.

But this wasn't a coma. Sam was damn sure of that. He wasn't exactly sure why Dean had passed out so suddenly, but it sure as hell wasn't serious...was it? He couldn't be positive, as much as he wanted to. Maybe he shouldn't have taken Dean along? If his brother couldn't even handle going for a drive in the Impala, then something was seriously wrong.

But something else was seriously wrong too.

Now that Sam thought about it, he barely remembered walking to and from the store. _What the hell?_ Confusion flooded through him as he struggled to uncover the mystery that he had just now realized. One minute, he had been stepping on the brake and parking the Impala, and the next...he was in the store, standing right where he should be, inside the market.

He knitted his brow, his eyes snapping to Dean's motionless form before hesitantly moving to where his healing scratch was, still cutting clean across his anti-possession tattoo. Immediately, he looked back to his older brother, a cold chill rocketing through his body. His hazel eyes investigated every inch of Dean, searching for any inconspicuous injuries or suspicious marks. If it really was possible that Sam was _...possessed..._

The thought dissipated into the still uncertain depths of his brain, the possibility of it too overwhelming for Sam to rationally consider it. Still, he inspected every inch of his sibling's skin, trying in vain to find some hint of anything that could have occurred.

Nothing.

At least, that's what he thought until he saw the small, almost unnoticeable droplet of blood slipping down Dean's neck. Sam jumped into action, thrusting his brother's head to the side without even thinking about being gentle. That's when he caught sight of the minuscule needle hole, probably jabbed in swiftly and efficiently by a syringe.

Whatever was going on, it sure as hell wasn't good. As Sam reached up to once more pull down his shirt collar to confusedly, yet almost fearfully, inspect his ruined anti-possession tattoo, suddenly his surroundings blurred, and he fell forwards, facefirst onto Dean's chest. His head was spinning as he attempted to lift his body up. He managed to shift his head off Dean, but that was all of the strength he could muster.

Before he knew it, the world went from blurry to completely black, and he knew no more.

* * *

As Sam went unconscious, the demon once more took control of his host's body, sighing in satisfaction as he savored the feeling of having the use of the younger Winchester's limbs. It still felt different, being inside a male instead of a female...he'd been the same gender his entire life...demon and human. And now, suddenly, as he had been promoted to work for the King himself, he was required to take control of a male. He was still adjusting. But he knew that if he blew his cover, Crowley would be beyond furious.

That had been a damn close call...Sam was a smart one, he could see that now. The kid hadn't gotten a full ride to Stanford for nothing. That was a disadvantage on the demon's side. He sat back in chair, watching the older Winchester with a thoughtful expression on his face.

He still couldn't see what was so special about Dean Winchester. But if Crowley wanted something, then he got it. Creating the perfect Hell with Dean, though, he couldn't understand. What kind of demon would he be? Resistant or loyal? That was the question. One thing was for sure, though. Judging from how set Dean was on killing Abaddon, he would be more than happy to rip that bitch apart, demon or not.

The demon had to admit that drugging Dean with the sedative had been risky, but it was the only way he could safely meet with Crowley without his disappearance becoming suspicious. The older Winchester had been too alert for the demon's liking, so he'd quickly slipped the needle into the soft skin of the hunter's neck. It had knocked him right out, giving him enough time to speak with the King.

Naturally, Sam had been confused when Dean passed right out again after he had attempted to awaken him. It was just a short-term sedative, it'd keep Dean down for another hour at most, maybe less. Not serious at all. When Sam himself came to later, with no memory of what he had discovered, he would think nothing of it.

But before the demon gave complete control back to Sam, he needed to make sure the Blade was safe and secure from anyone and anything, especially Sam and Dean. He stood on heavy limbs, looking back briefly at Dean to make sure he wasn't stirring.

When he was certain that the older hunter was completely and utterly asleep, he exited the bedroom, heading straight for Sam's backpack, where he had temporarily stashed the First Blade. He'd swiftly taken control of Sam's body to do so before allowing Sam to bring the unconscious Dean back to his bedroom. Now was his chance to store the Blade in a much safer place.

The demon walked the halls of the bunker, scanning his surroundings with rapt attention. It needed to be somewhere concealed...a place that someone would never think to look…

There.

His eyes latched onto it. _The perfect hiding spot._ Normal, mundane...considered an everyday appliance. Neither Sam nor Dean would even look twice at it, let alone look inside it. The demon strode towards the air-conditioning unit, which was embedded into the wall. With careful hands, he removed the front of it, uncovering the hidden compartment that could easily fit the Blade inside.

 _Perfect._ His mind repeated.

* * *

The first thing Dean's heavy eyelids were met with when he opened them was the ceiling of his bedroom. Last he remembered, he'd been in the passenger seat of the Impala. What the hell had happened? Had he passed out, and Sam had brought him here? It was the only rational explanation that Dean could think up. Hell, he hadn't flown himself here.

He blinked a few times, trying to eradicate the tiny ache in his still-groggy eyes. Dean lifted his throbbing head, surveying his surroundings hazily. He wasn't sure what to think when his gaze fell upon the sleeping form of his brother, whose towering figure was curled uncomfortably in the chair by Dean's bed, his chin dropping towards his shoulder.

A part of him felt warmth...it seemed that his younger sibling really was worried about him. But the other side of him felt confused. After all Sam had said...he had clearly stated that he didn't give a flying crap what happened to his older brother. That he wouldn't try to save him if he'd been _dying._

But now, Sam was here, falling asleep while watching over his brother. His younger sibling's abrupt changes of character were giving Dean head spins.

Dean reached out an arm that felt as heavy as lead, prepared to rouse his brother, but then froze, watching Sam. The warmth inside him was growing, grateful merely for Sam's presence in the room. The younger Winchester had been pushing himself to the limit lately. Most hunters did the same, but Sam deserved a break.

Anyway, Dean's exhaustion was returning slowly, yet surely. He felt less ill than before, but that didn't mean anything at the moment. But he supposed after a pause that it may be a good sign. Ever since he'd come down with this damned sickness, he'd been gradually getting worse. If Dean didn't feel so weak, he'd probably be trying to get back on the job.

Not on the mood to strike up a conversation with Sam and, also, unwilling to wake his brother, Dean pulled back his hand and closed his eyes.

It wouldn't be so bad to fall asleep again...

* * *

Castiel strode purposefully through the streets of London, ignoring the usual bustle of activity from the tourists and the residents of England. He was on a mission, his mind only focused on one thing. But, first and foremost, he needed to reach his destination...

The British Library.

It was the last location on his mental list where he figured he would be able to find the answer to what Dean's disease was. It was well-known for its array of biblical manuscripts, books, and other texts, and Castiel hoped to find what he looking for there. But he knew that he shouldn't keep his hopes up. Whatever Dean had, he knew it was rare. Even the Vatican Library didn't have answers.

But he refused to give up. Dean was his friend, and he wanted to save him before Crowley's scheme had a chance to play out. With a total of one hundred seventy million total items, the British Library may have what he was looking for.

The minute Castiel walked through the doors of the library, he was abruptly overwhelmed by the vastness of it all. A large glass ceiling allowed sunlight to filter in, and the countless bookcases were tall, dark, and majestic. That feeling that Castiel had encountered each time he entered a library in search of answers filled him to the brim. Hopelessness...could it even be described as stress? Dean's time was running out each second he stalled. The sooner he found answers, the better.

He stalked towards the section in the array of shelves that was labeled _'Blblical Texts'._ Before he had a chance to begin his search, a sprightly middle-aged woman practically hopped over to him. "Are you all good over here, sir? Anything you need help finding? Is there something in particular that you're looking for?"

The questions flew out of her mouth so quickly that Castiel barely had a chance to register what she was saying. He gave her a polite shake of his head, and she nodded in a bubbly manner and bounded away. Castiel ran his fingers across the spines of a few of the books, searching for the title he could be looking for. One immediately caught his eye...' _Diseases and Ailments of the Old Testament'..._

Well, he had to start somewhere.

Carefully, he pulled the book from its shelf and placed it on the nearest empty table. Castiel knew it wouldn't be worth it to skim through...what if he missed what he was looking for by accident? So, he figured he start from the beginning and read _every word_ of every page. And...if he didn't find it in this, then he would simply move onto the next possible candidate.

After three hours, Castiel had found what he knew Dean would call _'jack squat'._ He'd read through what felt like a million biblical texts and had found virtually nothing. It was almost as if Crowley had _created_ whatever Dean's illness was. All he knew was that this had been the last place on Earth that he'd thought to look for answer…

It was over.

* * *

Castiel sat rigidly at the diner table, staring absentmindedly at the cold and untouched mug of black coffee standing forlornly in front of his very eyes. Coffee had always appealed to him, when he was human and angel. Although he tasted every molecule when he was an angel, it wasn't as disgusting as taking a bite of...for example, a PB&J sandwich.

It felt like he'd looked everywhere...every single place on the surface of the Earth. Just to try to figure out what the hell Crowley was doing to Dean...exactly what kind of disease Dean had. As much as he was reluctant to admit it, Castiel missed Heaven. It had answers, answers that one could not find simply on Earth. He would be able to find what he was looking for upstairs.

Where could he possibly look now for the source of Dean's illness and Crowley's plan? It was obviously an ancient disease. But _was_ it biblical? Or something else? The possibilities were endless. This was making Castiel's head spin. He grabbed ahold of his coffee and took a tentative sip, unwilling to fully absorb the taste of the now-lukewarm beverage.

"Sir?" The hesitant voice broke through Castiel's reveries, and he looked up. His eyes were met with the kind face of a waitress, a coffee pot clutched in her hand. "More coffee?"

"Ah..." Castiel indicated his own mug, which was still three-quarters of the way full. "I think I'm good."

The waitress nodded, brushing a stray lock of her platinum blonde hair behind her ear. "That's fine, sir..." She trailed off. "Um...listen, I'm sorry, but if you want to keep the table, you'll have to order more than coffee."

Castiel fingered the handle of his cup. He'd heard that line many times before, specifically during that point in his unnaturally long life where he'd been attempting to keep the angel tablet safe...away from demons, angels, even the Winchesters. He swallowed another drop of the coffee and sighed.

"Of course." Castiel responded, taking a more convincing swig of his drink and ignoring the explosion of different flavors in his mouth. It wasn't overall unpleasant, but he couldn't say that he preferred it. He glanced at the chalkboard on the wall, looking for the first item on the list. "I'll have the Biggerson's Special...the steak, cheddar, and egg sub sandwich."

The waitress smiled at him while swiftly jotting down his order. "Coming right up. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Castiel knew he wasn't going to eat the sandwich, but he simply wanted to take a moment to gather his thoughts before he continued his research. He pushed the coffee away once the waitress was out of sight and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. Was there any place, not including Heaven, where he could find what he was looking for?

He sat musing for a while, tapping his foot aimlessly against the linoleum floor. Was it possible that he done all that he could? Contributed everything he had...just to fail at the end?

No.

Cass refused to believe that. If there was one thing that he had learned from the Winchesters, it was to never give up. Sam and Dean were devoted to each other, and both of them would do just about anything to save the other, even go to Hell.

And now...Castiel was just as faithful to them as they were to each other. They _were_ his brothers, unlike those poor excuses for angels that had always been referred to as his _'brethren'._ Dean was his friend, his... _brother,_ and Cass would find answers. Not only for Dean, but for Sam, too.

The Winchesters had helped him numerous times, and what had he repaid them with? Betrayal, once or twice. That wasn't a very good way to show his gratitude. _This_ was his way of thanking them. And he couldn't just... _give up._

But what did he have left for options? If he didn't know what he was up against...how could he help Dean? That's when it hit him. He had no idea he could be so dense.

 _The bunker._

The Men of Letters had practically been the geniuses of all biblical and supernatural lore. They had discovered information that some hunters and even angels had never thought to exist. They had an entire library filled with their seemingly unlimited knowledge. It was such an obvious place to research that Castiel felt unbelievably stupid. It was perfect.

By the time the waitress from before returned with his steak, cheddar, and egg sub sandwich, Castiel had already departed.

* * *

It took a while for Sam to rouse himself. His entire body ached, particularly his head, which throbbed with every movement he made. He shifted, stretching out his legs and uncurling from his uncomfortable position in the chair. He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. That's when his eyes found his brother, who was still out like a friggin' light.

Was it possible that something was wrong? Dean had been sleeping an awful lot ever since he had caught this damn thing. Maybe he was just...tired. Dean only slept about four hours every night when they were on a case...it could just be catching up with him.

Sam didn't remember falling asleep...he must have been more tired than he had thought. But that was no big deal. Dean seemed to have experienced no changes since he had passed out, and Sam supposed that, even though it would be better if he had awakened, it was a good sign.

Sam stood shakily and stretched out his sore muscles. He cast a fleeting glance at his watch and recoiled when he saw that he'd been asleep for almost four hours. And Dean was _still_ out? "Dammit." He muttered under his breath, his muscles tensed in preparation to do everything in his power to wake his brother up.

But then he stopped.

What was the point in waking Dean? From what had happened lately, Sam had a feeling that the older Winchester would simply sink back into unconsciousness a minute or two after he awakened.

Sam sighed, watching his older brother with fear gradually growing in his gut. This was no simple illness, he could see that quite clearly. But he figured the best thing to do at the moment was to let things play out on their own.

And hold onto the hope that Dean was okay.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Sam dropped down into the chair that sat forlornly by the table in the bunker's library. There was a book from their massive collection of left open in front of him. He studied it aimlessly before snapping it shut in disinterest and pushing it back into its place on the bookshelf. Sam poured himself some whiskey and sat back down, fingering the edge of the glass.

He felt confined in here, almost...trapped. He wanted to be out in the world, doing what he did best. Doing what Dean had said all those years before... _Hunting down as many evil sons of bitches as I possibly can._ He had a feeling his brother was thinking the same exact thing every waking moment. Hunting was simply something they'd always done and it was almost a priority for them by now.

Both of them had attempted living a normal life...Sam more than once. And it had never worked out for either of them. One way or another, they were always dragged back into life on the road at some point.

Sam had wanted Dean to be happy. To live a simple, apple-pie lifestyle. His death wish had been for Dean to go live with Lisa and her son, Ben. They had been what had made Dean really feel happy and... _normal._ Something more than a _'screwed up son of a bitch with a tendency for PTSD',_ as Sam had a feeling Dean would describe himself as.

Sam tapped his foot impatiently, feeling unbelievably fidgety. This was getting to be a bit too much, having to stay cooped up in the bunker for so many days in a row. It felt almost neverending. But he couldn't leave Dean, even for a few hours...it just didn't feel right. What if Dean woke up and needed him? Sam remembered how his brother had wanted to take care of him when he'd been sick from the Trials. Someway, somehow...this was Sam's way of thanking him.

He remembered the whiskey he held in his hand and brought the cup to his mouth, savoring the feeling of the cool glass against his lips. The alcohol burned down his throat, painful, but a good distraction from his agitation.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair.

The past few days, for some inexplicable reason, Sam had been feeling rather... _off._ He didn't know why, and he couldn't really rationally explain _how_ exactly he was feeling. He just felt... _different?_ Was that the right word for it? Maybe. Sam had a lingering suspicion that he had felt like this before. But... _when?_

That's when it hit him.

The last time he'd felt like this...it was when he'd been possessed by the angel, Gadreel.

* * *

The demon couldn't stand this much longer. He snapped into control of the younger Winchester's body, preparing to once more wipe Sam's mind. The hunter was catching onto what was happening _again._ How many times was he going to have to take the risk of erasing the kid's brain? Obliterating certain memories from anyone's mind was a precarious and even hazardous task. Truthfully, he wasn't very skilled with it, which made it even more dangerous for the younger Winchester.

That's what stopped him from completing the task.

He decided was just going to have to let it go for now, to hope that Sam would simply consider this... _'feeling',_ as he called it, a coincidence. It was the only way that he would be able to keep his host unharmed.

But he also had the responsibility of keeping Sam physically in shape. If he was riding an injured vessel, using him from the inside most of the time, it would be completely useless to keep tabs on Dean.

"S'm... _S'mmy..."_

The weak, raspy voice snapped the demon back to reality and he quickly registered that it was Dean. Before giving control back to Sam, he cast a long look at the air-conditioning unit where he'd stored the First Blade. Perfectly normal. Sam and Dean, even that stupid angel with a lack of social skills, wouldn't suspect a thing was out of place.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

* * *

The sound of shattering glass split through the air. Sam started violently, standing up so abruptly that his chair tumbled backwards. He looked around for a second, blinking in confusion. _What the hell?_ He felt like he'd just blacked out for a moment. But why would he?

Sam took a second to get ahold of himself, in that time realizing that he had dropped his glass. The floor was now covered in broken shards and alcohol. He had no idea what had happened, and there was absolutely no way to find out.

 _"S'mmy."_ The familiar voice, feeble and ill, broke through the air, and Sam was halfway to his brother's room before he even realized what he was doing. While stumbling over his feet, he reached Dean's door and busted it open.

"Dean?"

The older Winchester was sitting lopsidedly on his bed, as if he had attempted to sit up, but had failed miserably. "S'mmy..." Dean repeated, his voice quieter than before. He coughed into the crook of his arm and groaned. "Dammit, this blows."

"Yeah, dude, you've said that already." Sam responded, smirking and leaning against the doorframe. His panic had subsided and was replaced with relief...relief that his brother was awake and seemingly better than before. "You okay, Dean? You passed out all of a sudden before you could even get out of the Impala."

His brother shrugged, struggling into a more comfortable sitting position. "Yeah, don't know what that was about...but I'm okay, man, seriously." Sam gave him a doubtful look that Dean had become accustomed to over the years. _"Seriously."_

Sam raised his hands in surrender. "Whatever, dude. I'm just worried 'bout you. You feel any better?"

Dean sighed, massaging his forehead. "I don't know. It's not like I keep tabs on my levels of misery. I'm just...friggin' _miserable."_

Sam huffed in amusement before nodding. "Okay, man." He paused for a moment, noticing how pale and sweaty the older hunter's face was. "Hey, do you need anything? I don't know...soup, water...a friggin' humidifier?"

Dean gave him a confused look. "Don't have asthma, dude."

"Right." Sam responded. "But _do_ you need-"

 _"Sam."_ Dean interrupted, his tone now unnecessarily irritated. "Look, man, I have enough trouble already. I don't need you breathing down my neck every second of everyday. You're asking if I need anything? I need a lock on my door."

Annoyance began to surface in Sam, but he ignored it. He had a feeling this was just Dean's way of dealing with his sickness. "Fine. But you know I'm just trying to help. You're sick."

"Yeah, I'm sick of you at the moment," Dean replied. There was an awkward pause. "And I'm...literally sick, too." Before Sam had a chance to answer, he spoke again. "Goddammit, I'm never catching something again now that I know how you deal with the situation."

"You do know it's not something you can control, right?" Sam inquired, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Dean heard the joke in Sam's words, and, thankfully, his mood seemed to lift slightly. "What're you talkin' about?" He smirked, wiggling his eyebrows at his brother. "I'm Dean friggin' Winchester, I can control everything."

"Sure, Dean." Sam chuckled. "Do you want to get up? You've been...practically _bed-_ bound for a pretty long time now."

Dean cringed as he actually thought about the act of _walking._ It seemed like an almost unfamiliar idea to him. "I don't know, Sam..." He trailed off, giving his younger brother an uncertain look. "I guess I could try?"

"Good." Sam replied. "Okay, man, c'mon." He strode over to where Dean was trying, and failing, to swing his legs over the side of his bed. "Dean, stop. Just...let me help." Dean abandoned his attempt to get up and allowed his brother to assist him. Sam slung the older Winchester's arm around his waist and supported him to the door.

The minute they reached the library, Dean collapsed into a chair, acting as if the whole ordeal of walking from his bedroom to where he was now had been exhausting. "Oh, man..." He panted. "Might have to do some web MD, Sammy...for all we know, I could be dying."

"Dean." Sam gave his brother an exasperated look. Dean tended to get like this whenever he was injured, as well. But in those times, he usually was dying. "Stop being so friggin' dramatic. All you've been doing is sleeping. You're not dying."

"I don't know, Sam..." Dean trailed off. "All that sleeping may be compensating for something." Sam was surprised to hear actual fear creeping in his older brother's voice.

"Just don't think about it, dude," Sam responded, his tone less sharp. "It'll make it worse."

"I don't think the situation could be any worse, man." Dean said, studying his hands with sadness clear in his posture. There was a long pause where neither of them spoke. After a minute, Dean looked up at his brother again. And when he spoke, he was almost directly repeating Sam's thoughts from before. "I feel caged in, Sammy. And I don't like being caged in. I need to _hunt."_

"I get it, Dean," Sam said after another, yet not as long, pause. "I...kinda feel the same way. But there's nothing we can do. You've gotta take care of yourself, man. I know that's a foreign concept to you, but I'm not letting you BS it."

Dean shot him an irritated look, but failed to argue. Instead he leaned his head against the back of the chair, breathing heavily. He fell silent for a long while, and Sam turned his attention to his laptop.

As he aimlessly searched the web, he told himself internally that he was only looking for a simple salt-and-burn nearby. Who knows...maybe he'd get lucky. But there was no way in hell he was letting Dean go with.

He was just too weak.

About thirty minutes had gone past, and Sam hadn't even bothered to lift his eyes from his computer screen. This whole time, he'd been avidly scavenging for any possible jobs that would take him less than day at most. But it was to no avail.

As he scrolled through what seemed like countless articles and obituaries, he couldn't help but feel hopeless. Ever since Dean had come to get him at Stanford all those years ago, it felt like they'd never taken a break from the job. God knows, Dean had wanted to. For a time, while they'd still been hunting down the Yellow-Eyed demon, Dean had spoken several times of driving out to just...practically, take a vacation.

But hunting was their job, and they couldn't just abandon it. That was Sam's main problem with this whole situation, and he had a feeling that Dean felt the exact same way.

Speaking of Dean…

Sam finally disconnected his gaze from his laptop screen, and his hazel eyes found Dean dozing in the chair at the desk. He exhaled deeply through his nose and closed the lid of his computer.

Damn, he needed a beer.

* * *

 _The pain was agonizing. Every inch of Dean throbbed uncontrollably, worse than any pain Dean had ever experienced when he'd been alive. Every day, it was as if he was being torn apart by hellhounds again. Over and over again. Relentlessly. Except the hounds were advancing in knowledge and had decided to test other, more agonizing, methods of torture on him. But these hellhounds weren't actually hellhounds._

 _They were demons._

 _Demons working for the_ 'general' _here in Hell, Alastair. Dean had been here for a while now, around eighteen years, suffering the slow and painful torture inflicted by Hell's bitches. And that many years had been long enough for him to realize how brutal and ruthless Alastair could be._

 _The demons still surrounded him, ripping and tearing at his skin with their own bare hands. Hazily, Dean saw in his peripheral vision that a crowbar had been brandished, the tip of it glowing red-hot. The demon gripping it held it above his face, just an inch or two away from his left eye. His vision clouded over, replaced with a smoldering red._

 _"No," He whispered, his voice almost inaudible. "Please, no." Dean knew that his plea was pointless, but he didn't care. Anything to prevent any further damage to his already shredded flesh._

 _The demons merely cackled at his desperate words, still slashing and pounding his helpless body, using knives, axes, hammers, machetes, their hands...a friggin' morning star. Practically every premodern weapon or tool that Dean had ever known existed. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. It was unbearable. The deadly hot crowbar still hovered threateningly over his now closed eyelids. He wanted to curl up and die, but there was no way he could even do that._

 _He wanted Sam._

 _Damn, what he'd do to see his brother again. The lonely ache in his chest pulled at his heart, seemingly more agonizing than the physical pain that illuminated from his powerless form._

 _God, he missed so many people that he'd never thought he'd actually miss. If they knew what had happened to him...they'd probably miss him too. Until now, he'd never known how many people there were that really, truly meant something to him._

 _Bobby Singer. It wasn't unusual for the old hunter to be irritable and drunk half the time, but nonetheless, Bobby was the smartest damn hunter that Dean had ever known. He was like a second father to he and his brother, and although the hunter certainly wasn't the touchy-feely type, it was quite clear to the Winchesters that he cared about them as if they were his own two sons. He probably missed Dean like hell right now._

 _Ellen and Jo Harvelle. Goddammit, he never thought he'd care about the mother and daughter who had formerly owned Harvelle's Roadhouse before it had burned down. But he really did. Ellen was tough nut, yet unbelievably caring. He wouldn't have minded if she'd been his mother. Who wouldn't want a badass mom?_

 _And Jo. Dammit, Jo. She'd been a damn good hunter...for an amateur, of course. From the beginning, she'd been like a little sister to Dean. But now, years later, Dean realized that ever since hunting with her...there was something more there. The last time they'd crossed paths felt like it'd been centuries ago. She'd patched up his shoulder after his demon-possessed brother had shot him. Dammit, he'd told her he'd call her._

 _He never had._

 _Lisa Braeden. And her son, Ben. For a while, Dean had truly wondered if Ben had been his...they shared so many similar traits. The kid had to be nine or ten now. Or was time the same on Earth? Had Dean really been dead for eighteen years? That couldn't be right. Ben would be...twenty-six? No. Dean refused to believe that. Because if that was true...Sammy would be in his forties. He didn't want to imagine his brother like_ that. _He pushed the thought of his mind._

 _Lisa. God, Lisa. A fling nine or ten years ago. He'd run into her again on a case about a year before the hellhounds had gotten to him. He had saved her son and several other children. She'd kissed him before he'd left. She'd told him he could stick around. It had been tempting, but he had forced himself to say no. He wondered how she would feel if she learned where he was now. Dean hoped she never found out. But he'd do anything to see her again…_

 _He'd enjoyed that kiss. A lot._

 _But the person he missed the most, as he had already thought about day in and day out, was, of course, Sam. The one he'd called for until his voice went hoarse when he'd first arrived here. Sammy, his little brother. The one he had cradled at night when he was a baby. The one he'd always been there for when their father wasn't. The one he had vowed to protect until the end of his days. The one who ended up protecting him half the time. Dean remembered his last words, his last..._ advice... _to his little brother before the clock struck midnight…_

I'm sorry. I mean this is all my fault, I know that. But what you're doing...it's not gonna save me. It's only gonna kill you.

 _With tears in his eyes, Sam had replied._ Then what am I supposed to do?

Keep fighting. Take care of my wheels. _He'd said that with a small, yet sad, smile on his face._ Sam, remember what Dad taught you...okay? And remember what _I_ taught you.

 _It was at that time that the clock struck twelve. And in a matter of minutes, there was the pain. Then it was over._

 _And he woke up here, his flesh dug into meathooks that throbbed with every twitch of his muscles. He'd gotten used to them over the years, but never the torture. That was always fresh and new and as physically harrowing as it could possibly get._

 _That was the thought that brought him back to reality, once more registering the agony that ripped through his body in relentless waves. Throbbing, stinging. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much. He just wanted it to be over. He wanted it to go away. The pain, the need for his brother, the demons, the screeching of the other unfortunate souls placed on the rack._

 _The thought raced through his brain at a hundred miles per hour._ Go away, go away, go away, go away. _It gradually became louder, and louder, and louder, until he suddenly found himself screaming those two short words at the top of his lungs. "GO AWAY! GO AWAY! GO AWAY!" Of course, he expected no answer. So when a familiar voice broke through the air, he started violently._

 _"Sorry, kid, not gonna happen."_

 _Dean's eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, searching for the source of the slightly egotistical voice that had responded to his pleas. He was aware of its owner, but where was he? "Show yourself, you son of a bitch!" He growled, gnashing his teeth threateningly._

 _"And what if I don't?" The voice jibed, obviously amused._

 _"Then...then..." Dean trailed off. "...then I'll kill you!" He choked as blood spurted from his mouth. "I'll kill you, Alastair! I swear to God!"_

 _"I'd like to see you try, Dean-o," Alastair responded. And although the demon still refused to show himself, Dean could hear the smirk in his words. "You know why I'm here, of course. Don't you, Grasshopper?" He snickered, and Dean heard the snap of invisible fingers._

 _The agony dissipated in a matter of seconds. Relief filled every inch of Dean's now completely healed body. The meathooks still dug deep into his flesh, the pain from them becoming much more noticeable now that his previous injuries had been removed. He refused to reply to Alastair's question, which he chose to regard as rhetorical._

 _"Keeping quiet, aren't we, sunshine?" Alastair guessed. "You do understand that,_ 'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law', _doesn't apply here in Hell? You want to know why, Dean-o?" There was a long pause, and Dean suddenly felt warm, pungent breath right in front of his face. "You've already been sentenced."_

 _Patronizing cackles filled Dean's ears, and he squeezed his eyes shut._

 _"Aww...c'mon, sport," Alastair whined. "Have a sense of humor." When Dean once more failed to respond, Alastair continued. He had clearly finished messing with him, but he maintained his condescending tone. "Listen, kiddo, you know why I'm here. Same reason every time. You know the deal."_

 _Dean did, in fact, know what the demon spoke of._ 'The deal', _as Dean had resorted to calling it. It was simple enough. Alastair would take Dean off the rack...if he put others on. If he started the torture. Who the hell did Alastair think Dean was? He was a hunter, self-sacrifice and torture was a part of the job description. There was no way that he'd be selfish enough to take the deal._

 _Ever._

 _"And you know what I'm going to say," Dean replied. "Same answer every time...shove your friggin' deal up your pathetic ass."_

 _Alastair didn't respond, and after a moment, Dean realized that the demon had retreated. That meant that soon enough, the torture would start up once more. The agony, the elated cackles of the demons ripping his flesh from his body...he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to continue. But one thing was for sure…_

 _He would never accept that deal._

 _Before the demons could begin their daily torture, Dean slipped into an uneasy, pain-filled sleep. As usual, he dreamed of Alastair. He dreamed of torturing his demon ass until there was nothing left. He was going to get back at him someday. He was going_ kill _him. And just before Dean surfaced back to consciousness, he heard a voice in the back of his mind. A voice he vaguely recognized, but couldn't place…_

Sam...Dean's in trouble.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

Sam dug around in their small refrigerator, searching in vain for a beer. He knew that he'd bought a six-pack when he'd gone to get Dean pie. Which, speaking of the pie, was now sitting uneaten on the top shelf of the fridge. When Sam found no beer, he slammed the door shut and smacked his hand against it, enraged. He felt unnecessarily angry, but it was like he didn't realize he was pissed for no reason.

But he didn't care.

Tears began to sting at the corners of his eyes. Rapidly, Sam blinked them away, but he found himself unable to prevent a single drop of moisture to leak from his left eye and down his cheek. He angrily wiped it away before sitting down heavily in the nearest chair he could find. Dammit, this was getting friggin' stupid.

Sam ran a hand wearily through his hair, sighing deeply. He didn't know how long he was going to be able to take this. He was beginning to feel slightly... _claustrophobic._ Which was not normal for him. Sam was typically used to continuing on for days without taking a break, sometimes even losing a few precious hours of sleep every night. He usually considered this as unhealthy and yearned for a few days of relaxation.

Apparently a vacation wasn't something Sam enjoyed. He would be sure to remember that.

But now, as Sam thought about it, he concluded that it wasn't his being practically imprisoned in the bunker that was making him so irritable and agitated...it was his worry for his brother's well-being.

He should've known.

Sam's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a loud, familiar scream erupting from the library. He lurched to a standing position and, stumbling over his feet on the way, rushed to his brother's side. "Dean!" He exclaimed, skidding to a halt beside the older Winchester's trembling form. "C'mon, man..." He roughly jostled the other hunter's shoulder _. "Wake up."_

"Go away!" Dean groaned, writhing uncontrollably while clearly still unconscious. _"Go away! Go away!"_

Dean's distressed calls were causing Sam's stomach to churn. Once more, he shoved Dean, struggling to shake him awake. When he received no sign of the older Winchester stirring, a chill raced through his body, and he shivered. Sam's knees became weak, and he sank into the chair beside his brother's motionless body. "...Dean?" He whispered. "Wake up—please."

There was ultimately nothing Sam could do to help his brother. That he could think of off the top of his head, at least. So, he did the only thing he _could_ do, even though it didn't really benefit Dean in the slightest.

Sam stood and hoisted his brother out of the chair. Dean was still thrashing wildly, as if he were trying to get away from someone or...some _thing._ Sam struggled to keep the older Winchester under control as he practically dragged him back to his room. "Just hold on, Dean," Sam said, even though he was quite aware that Dean couldn't hear him. "It's gonna be okay."

By the time Sam settled his older brother once more on top of the memory-foam mattress, Dean was beginning to quiet. He still quivered as if frightened of something, but Sam was relieved he was, at very the least, calming down. "You'll be all right, man," Sam murmured. "For once in my life, _I'm_ going to be the one protecting _you."_

And without a doubt, he would.

* * *

As the younger Winchester strode out into the bunker's library, he almost jumped out of his skin as he noticed the trench coat-clad figure sifting through the books on the shelves in a frantic manner.

"Cass!" He exclaimed, half-startled and half-relieved that the angel was now here to actually prevent him from going completely insane. After a moment, Castiel still didn't answer, and Sam walked forward, watching him in confusion. "What exactly are you doing?"

The angel said nothing, his hands moving so fast that Sam could hardly believe that Castiel was actually reading one word of any of the books he zipped through. "Not here, not here, not here..." Cass muttered to himself.

Castiel was quite aware of Sam's confusion, but this wasn't the time or place to explain everything. Dean was in trouble, and to keep him alive, Cass couldn't afford to be delayed. If Sam knew what was going, Castiel was sure he'd agree with him.

It was for Dean, after all. He was Cass's brother...not by blood, but by pure loyalty and devotion.

Castiel flipped through another manuscript, his chest heaving. Nothing...nothing... _nothing._ How was it possible that no place on Earth had records of this disease? It was almost as if Crowley had _created_ it himself. But that was impossible. There was no way that the King of Hell was that powerful.

"Cass, for God's sake," Sam growled, stalking to where he stood right in front of the angel. "Answer me, dammit." When Castiel once more offered no response, Sam rolled his eyes and ripped what he'd been reading from his hands. "Am I invisible or something?"

Cass attempted to claim his book back, but Sam pulled back. "Or something." He said finally. "Listen, Sam, you have to trust me. Your brother may be in serious trouble."

Sam's grip on the book loosened and he dropped it onto the table. Cass could almost hear the increase of his heartbeat. "What the hell are you talking about?" Castiel turned away, selecting another book from the shelf. "Cass!"

The angel whirled towards the younger Winchester again, a fire in his eyes that Sam had never seen before. "I said; _trust me."_ He exclaimed. "I'm going to save Dean if it's the last thing I do."

 _"Save_ Dean!? Cass—"

"Sam, I'm doing this to not only help your brother, but you as well." Castiel interrupted roughly. "You two have sacrificed so much for each other, and saved each other _so many_ times..." He trailed off. "I just wanted to help you for once."

Sam paused, thrown off by Castiel's motive. "But you have, Cass. A friggin' lot." The angel looked as if he were about to protest, but Sam cut him off. "So you've let us down a couple of times too. Who hasn't? Dean and I have betrayed each other more often than not, it's not something to be ashamed of. Everybody makes mistakes." Sam then realized how hypocritical he was being, after what he'd said to Dean when he found out about the whole Gadreel situation.

He put a hand on Castiel's shoulder as he started to turn away again. "I mean it. You don't have to do this by yourself just to... _prove_ yourself to us. We already trust you, even rely on you, wholeheartedly." Cass sighed deeply before nodding hesitantly. Sam grinned. "We gonna make this a _'chick-flick moment'_ , as Dean calls it, and hug?"

Sam had to admit, he was rather surprised when Cass pulled him in for a friendly, almost brotherly, embrace. The younger Winchester exhaled briefly and smiled slightly, patting the angel's back.

When Castiel stepped back, Sam crossed his arms over his chest. "So now can you tell me what the hell is going on?"

Cass bit his lip, a habit he had just recently acquired since he'd become human. _Should_ he tell Sam everything? The hunter was completely oblivious to everything that was going on, but Castiel still wasn't sure he should let him in on the complete truth. It could be a disadvantage. He wasn't sure how, but something inside him told him to keep Crowley out of Sam's knowledge for now. He would tell him when it was completely necessary.

"I don't think that this illness Dean has contracted is a simple _'bug'_ as you humans call it." Cass chose his words carefully. Sam's confused silence was a signal to Castiel to continue. "I think it's a disease. Possibly life-threatening."

Sam's breath hitched in his throat, and he gripped the nearest chair for support. "What—what kind of disease?" He could hardly believe what he was hearing. It couldn't be true, it just _couldn't._ Dean would be okay. Wouldn't he?

Cass shook his head, ashamed that he didn't have much to go on. "I don't know for sure...it could be biblical, supernatural...the possibilities are endless." He sighed, turning back to the bookcase. "We just need to look for something that even remotely sounds like what Dean's experiencing. Similar symptoms, behavior...anything."

"But, Cass, what makes you so sure he's got a disease?" Sam inquired, still unwilling to believe what the angel was telling him. Goddammit, he just wanted his brother to be all right for once in his life. "He just seems sick to me."

 _"_ Sam, you have to _trust_ me," Castiel insisted. "Please. I _know_ something is wrong." It was a weak explanation, but the angel didn't have the time or patience to think up something more believable. "And I'm going to find out what and I'm going to _fix_ it before something bad happens to your brother. I promise." Cass said. "You just have to believe me."

"I do, Cass." Sam responded after a long, uncertain, pause. "I believe you. If you think there's something wrong with Dean, then...then we have to help him..." Sam took a shaky breath, casting a glance down the hallway where Dean lay unconscious in his bedroom.

"Now let's find out what the hell is wrong with my brother."

* * *

Sam wasn't sure how much time had passed while he and Castiel searched through what felt like millions of books and manuscripts. "Cass." Sam said finally, slamming what he'd been reading shut and throwing it on the table. "Are we _completely_ blind?" He rubbed his eyes with one hand, sighing in irritation. "We've found absolutely _nothing."_

"Don't say _anything_ else," Castiel responded, sounding unnecessarily _...ecstatic,_ despite their situation. "I think I found something." Sam shot to his feet the minute he heard those words leave the angel's mouth. "I can't be certain," Cass continued. "But it sounds pretty similar to what Dean's going through."

"Just _read_ the damn thing," Sam insisted, leaning over Castiel's shoulder in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the words on the ancient, yellowing scroll that lay in front of the angel. "Is it bad? Is there a cure? Should we be doing something to help?" The questions spewed out of Sam's mouth without his telling them to. Greater worry for his brother was beginning to seep into his gut.

"It's in Enochian," Castiel informed him. "But this particular disease's name originated from Latin. It goes by the name of _'Mortem per somniatis'."_

"Okay..." Sam trailed off. "What does that translate to in English?"

Cass looked up at him, dread filling his cobalt blue gaze. _"'Death by dreams'."_ He glanced down at the scroll again. "The text states that the first sign of the disease is a simple illness. Excessive sleep is listed as the most frequent symptom."

Sam took a shaky breath, chewing his lip with anxiety. "Yes…keep going."

"In the weeks following the victim's contraction of the illness, they begin to have vivid nightmares reenacting their... _worst memories_. At first, they remember their dreams after waking, but as the disease spreads, they don't recall having dreamed of anything." Castiel paused to take a breath. "Which therefore prevents them from thinking something worse is happening to them."

"Interesting tactic," Sam remarked, once more inserting himself into the conversation. "But Dean does seem to be thinking something's happening to him...what do you think that means?"

"Well," Castiel mused. "Possibly he's noticing subtle differences this disease is inflicting on him. He does have sharper senses, being a hunter." He directed his attention to the scroll, furrowing his brows. "As their dreams become more like reality, the victim's body begins to...begins to shut down." Cass didn't waver, although his heart did. "At that point, it's only a matter of time before their organs completely stop working. By then, it's over."

Sam couldn't even muster the strength to breathe. "No, Cass," He said slowly. "It won't be over. It's _never_ over. Not when you're a Winchester. Haven't you realized that since you've known us?"

Castiel exhaled deeply. "Sam, I—I don't know what we _can_ do once it reaches that point. But, for now, we find a cure."

 _"Find_ a cure?" Sam inquired. "You're saying there isn't one listed in there?"

"No," Cass admitted, closely reading the text on the scroll. "But it gives the location of the recipe." Before Sam asked the stupid question of _'where'?,_ Castiel continued. "It says the following... _'The list of components for the cure lie in the safest place in existence'."_

"And what's that?" Sam asked, furrowing his brow.

Castiel bowed his head in defeat as he realized what the text was referring to.

"Heaven."

* * *

"So, you're saying that only way to make this antidote is to get a friggin' _list of ingredients_ in _Heaven!?"_ Sam was beyond stressed. "Dammit, Cass, we don't have _time_ for this! Dean is dying, and here we are, sitting on our asses, unable to even _try_ to make this cure!"

"Sam, I'm going to do what I can," Castiel responded defensively. "And, not to mention, we aren't even sure Dean _is_ sick."

"Well, then is there way to be one hundred percent _positive_ that he does _?"_ Sam's words were forceful and full of irritation, and no one could blame him. He could be losing his brother…

Again.

There was a long pause as the angel studied the scroll before he replied. " _Yes_." Cass said finally, looking up at Sam. "Apparently, this disease creates a residue, dark and thick, similar to the consistency of molasses."

"A residue?" Sam frowned and stood up from where he'd plopped down in one of the chairs, defeated. "Then we have to look!" He exclaimed. Sam had to be sure. He wasn't sure what he would do if they did, indeed, discover this so-called _'residue',_ but for now, he held onto the hope that they would find nothing.

Before Sam knew it, he was standing over Dean's slumbering form, fear consuming his insides. "Well?" He inquired, turning to Cass with a grim expression. "See if you can find it." He bit his lip, the blood draining from his face as he watched the angel stride towards his brother.

Castiel inspected the older Winchester from head to toe, searching for what the scroll had described. Nothing. At least, that's what he thought for a precious twenty or so seconds.

That's when he saw it.

 _Black, thick, sticky_...slowly inching its way down Dean's pillow from his ear, leaving a dark stream in its path. "Sam," He said quietly, his confidence plummeting. "Dean's in trouble. Grave trouble."

The hunter winced, recognizing his friend's tone. "No." He responded, his eyes finding the residue that Dean's body had ejected. "No, it's not true." He stalked towards his brother's unconscious body. "It's not _true!"_

For a minute he felt nine years old again, that time when Dad had told him that Dean would have to be gone for a couple of days. When he'd asked why, John had simply said that his older brother was _'not feeling good'._ Enough the satisfy any normal kid.

But not Sam.

A few days later, after he'd insisted his father take him to see his sibling, he'd learned that Dean hadn't simply been _'sick'._ He'd been gravely injured while hunting a werewolf with their dad, and was near death, comatose in the ICU.

He was just as scared now. Terrified even. He was shaking so hard with God knows how many emotions rocketing through him that Cass attempted to block his path to his brother. "Sam, stop. There's nothing we can do except try to make the antidote."

"We can wake him up," Sam hissed through gritted teeth. "And _keep_ him conscious. It won't be so hard." There was no spirit in his words. He felt no determination. But his brother was dying. He had to, at least, try to save him. Because that's what they did for each other.

He remembered his words to Dean not so long ago, when he had claimed that he wouldn't have done what Dean had done for him if the situation were reversed. At the time he'd meant it.

Now all he felt was guilt. He wondered vaguely if Dean had dreamed of that night due to this damned disease.

Probably.

How could he say that to Dean? Now his stinging words would quite possibly be a part of shutting his own brother's body down. "We can wake him up." He repeated, pushing past the angel and clasping his hands over Dean's shoulders. Then, he shook him roughly. "Come on," He growled. _"Wake up!_ Dean!" Sam jostled his brother even harder. "C'mon, man, _open your damn eyes!"_

There was no response from his brother, he remained as still and limp as humanly possible.

"Sam," Cass repeated. "Stop, please." He grabbed ahold of the younger Winchester's wrist, pulling him away from the other hunter. "We need to figure something out, before the disease takes your brother. By that time, there's nothing we can do."

Sam remained silent, but nonetheless allowed the angel to force him to walk away from Dean's sleeping form. His entire body was overcome with grief, fear, and a slew of other emotions that filled him to the brim, making it almost unbearable for him to rationally think about what was happening to his older sibling.

He watched his brother disappear from view as Castiel closed the door. _I'm not going to let you die, Dean…_

 _I promise._


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

Dean was trembling, his entire body shaking with a slew of different emotions. Even he himself, in his unconscious state, couldn't decipher each and every one. Fear? Grief? Anxiety? He wasn't sure. His hands clenched into tight fists and a tear rolled down his cheek. Why, he couldn't explain while conscious. But now he was seeing something that had haunted him for years after it had occurred.

A photograph.

* * *

 _The flames licked viciously at the edges of the picture, eventually burning away Sam...Cass...Bobby. Ellen, too. And even himself. Then there was only one face left, the fire surrounding her flawless features._

 _Jo._

 _Dean couldn't rip his eyes away from her smoldering face in the photo, the last piece of Jo that he would ever see. Although he hadn't told Sam, Bobby, or Cass, he'd kept her gun. She'd brought a shotgun with on the expedition to Carthage, but Dean had found her pistol buried under her messy piles of clothes within her duffel bag. After discovering it, he'd secretly stowed it away in his own bag, as a reminder of the girl who could've been his._

 _Dean still couldn't rationally convince himself that what had happened in Carthage—Jo and Ellen's death, the Colt failing to work on the Devil—had actually happened. After Dean had fired a shot at Lucifer with the Colt, and it had proved to be useless, the Devil had flung Dean against a tree, knocking him out for a few precious minutes. When he'd awakened to Sam's hand on his neck, checking his pulse, he'd literally believed that everything had been a dream._

 _He couldn't have been more devastated when he realized that it wasn't._

 _Now, as he stood motionless in front of the fireplace, watching Jo's face burn away, he found it difficult to keep his tears inside. It shouldn't be mainly Jo he was grieving for anyway...Ellen had died just as heroically._

 _But Jo…_

 _He remembered almost every second with the girl he had, at first meeting, considered just a_ 'hot, blonde waitress' _. But she was so much more than that. For a long while, he'd thought of her as a little sister, but as years passed without hearing from her, Dean realized that she was more to him than that._

 _He had loved her._

 _Dean was continuously reliving the day's events, unable to stop the aching of his heart…_

 _And suddenly, he was back in Carthage, in that hardware store. He knelt before Jo's petite, mauled form and wrapped her trembling fingers around the button that would eventually trigger the bomb that will rip her out of this world._

 _For a moment, he was unwilling to look into her tortured brown eyes. Unwilling to let her go for good. But he forced himself to catch her gaze and say goodbye to the girl for a long while he had considered a friend, a...sister._

 _"Okay, this is it," He murmured, still avoiding eye contact._

 _But he forced himself to look at her, and the minute they both locked eyes, he finally felt something click inside him. Something he was abruptly surprised he hadn't felt years before. Maybe it was the sudden realization that he was_ losing _her._

 _"I'll see you on the other side. Probably sooner than later."_

 _She let out a lofty, sad chuckle and lifted her shotgun into his hands. "Make it later."_

 _There was a quiet, meaningful pause between them. He could see the tears slip down her cheeks and he instantaneously found himself leaning forward and pressing his lips to her forehead. He felt her face crumple in defeat as he pulled back._

 _And it was like he was seeing her for the first time._

 _He could feel the love that she had kept hidden from him since they first met. He_ knew _what she wanted...and he wanted it to. Dean once more bent his head towards hers and pressed his mouth against hers. The minute their lips met, he felt his heart swell, he felt the desire he had kept hidden for years. He felt an overwhelming pang of grief, knowing that this would be the only time he would ever be able to kiss her._

 _But then he pulled away. And before he knew it, the fire blasted before his eyes, signifying that Jo Harvelle was out of his life forever._

* * *

"I have to go, Sam," Castiel insisted. "I'm going to figure this out."

"No, Cass," The younger Winchester protested. "You can't do this yourself. You have to let me help you." His words were meant to sound determined, hopeful, optimistic...whatever you wanted to call it. But it wasn't convincing. And underneath, his tone was laced with defeat and grief for the older brother that was already lost to him.

"And how exactly do you think you're going to do that?" The angel demanded. "There's no way for you to do anything, Sam. Only I can enter Heaven, I just have to think of a way in now that Metatron's in charge."

"Yeah, they're not exactly gonna lay out a welcome mat for you." Sam remarked, raking a hand wearily across his face. "And it's pretty damn obvious that you and Metatron are not on the best of terms." The hunter poured himself a nearly-full glass of whiskey and drained it in seconds. That would make his third large glass of alcohol. And he didn't care. He didn't _care_ about the burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat. He didn't _care_ about how light-headed he was beginning to feel. He didn't _care_ about the nausea that was rapidly growing in his gut.

What he cared about was his brother.

Why was it always them? The crap that the world had to offer being constantly thrown their way? They did everything in their power to stop the evil of this messed-up planet they called home, and it always, _always,_ backfired.

"Sam?" Cass's voice broke the younger Winchester's train of thought, and he looked up, already experiencing the effects of the whiskey. "Are you going to be all right?" His friend looked appropriately concerned.

"What? Yeah." Sam took a shaky breath in. "Just go. Do your thing, see if you can get in upstairs somehow." He exhaled deeply and cast a glance down the hall to where Dean lay…possibly dying. "Do everything you can." Sam turned back to the angel, desperation clear in his hazel eyes. "Please."

Castiel nodded. "I will. I swear." He began to leave, but then paused. "And, Sam…promise me something, too." The hunter dipped his head, creasing his brow. "First of all, don't… _don't_ touch the residue." That fact was obvious, Sam was surprised Cass even felt the need to mention it. "And…" The angel trailed off. "If worse comes to worst, you take Dean to the hospital."

"The hospital?" Sam inquired, tilting his head in confusion. That sudden statement had caught him off-guard, which was enough to shed some clarity into his alcohol-soaked brain. What can they do to help Dean? This isn't something physical, Cass. It's—"

"Mental." Castiel finished for him. "I know that. But although it may be within Dean's mind, it will spread throughout his body. From the account in the scroll, which happens to be the only record of a past epidemic, the text states that the disease has the ability to shut down every organ in your body. The amount and the specific organs shut down depends on how damaging your memories are."

"And the hospital can do something to…what, prevent the organs from failing?" Sam inquired, skeptical.

"No, the disease is too strong for that," Castiel admitted. "But they _do_ have the ability to slow down the process. That will give us more time to find, and…hopefully…make the antidote." He hesitantly put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We have to do everything we can, and bringing your brother to the hospital will help tremendously."

"I understand that, Cass, and I know that you'll do everything you can to help Dean," Sam replied. "But I'm only taking Dean to the hospital if it's _absolutely_ necessary. I'm sorry, but…I can't leave him alone." He took a deep breath. "And…I don't think I could see him in a friggin' hospital bed again. It's just happened too many damn times."

"Sam, the hospital may be Dean's only way to stay alive at the moment," Castiel pointed out, his tone forceful. He couldn't understand why the younger Winchester wasn't willing to do everything he could to save his brother. "If they can stall the progression of the disease…"

"I know, Cass," Sam responded. "You've said that already. And I'll bring him in if it gets worse." Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his decision made. "Can you go? Dean's not getting any better while we sit here on our asses." Sam's voice was sour, and Cass couldn't blame him.

The angel closed his jaw and nodded grudgingly. "I agree," Castiel answered. "I'll be back as soon as I figure something out."

Sam dipped his head as a cue for his friend to take his leave. Cass bit his lip again and turned away. He stepped away from the hunter, and the next thing he knew, he was approaching his car, already out of the bunker.

Castiel took a deep breath. He had a large task ahead of him, and it wouldn't be easy. He knew that for a fact. But he was doing this because he had to. It was almost expected of him. Once more, he told himself. It was for a good cause.

To help the Winchesters, and not just Dean. Sam as well.

* * *

Dean _knew_ he was asleep. But he felt awake. He could vaguely hear the voices of Cass and Sam conversing intensely. But what exactly were they saying? Why were they in his room if he was sleeping? He was suddenly aware of Sam's hands on his shoulders, trying desperately to shake him into consciousness. He wanted so badly to just open his eyes and show his little brother that he was okay, that he was still with him…

But he couldn't. The dreams always took over.

At the moment, he was in the ' _half-awake'_ state, completely unable to open his eyes or move a muscle. But he honestly wasn't trying. He was too busy recovering from the grief of Jo's death that had been renewed fresh. He hated to admit it, but he really hadn't thought about the girl who'd gotten away for almost two years. He tried to focus on something else, something that prevented him from paying attention to the overwhelming loss that he was feeling for Jo Harvelle.

Sam. Cass. Where were they? Dean couldn't hear voices, faint nor clear. But he wanted his brother. It felt like it'd been years since he'd seen him. Or, more accurately, since he'd seen the actual world.

Forcing his muscles to move, Dean managed to muster the strength to move his lips and croak out one single word…

" _S'mmy…"_

A beat. And then another. Dean held onto his hope. But after a few more moments of silence, he realized that there would be no response. Sam wasn't with him. Well, then he'd have to take matters into his own hands. He strained his eyelids, attempting to crack them open. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. Dammit, when did he turn into such a pussy?

Dean was still undeterred. " _Sammy."_ He murmured again. His words were clearer this time, but his brother still didn't reply. He began to feel unnaturally light-headed and nauseous. It seemed as if a tidal wave went suddenly rolling through his skull. His head throbbed uncontrollably, and Dean's breath hitched in his throat.

Another dream was coming.

 _No._ He tried to push it away, to prevent himself from falling into the next memory, but the more he fought, the more his head throbbed. With an inward groan, Dean stopped resisting.

And the dream flooded over him, dragging him back to oblivion.

* * *

Sam could scarcely think, he was so exhausted. Every bone in his body ached with the effort of keeping himself conscious. It'd been three days since Castiel had gone in search of a way into Heaven, and he hadn't one word from him. Dean was still down under, and Sam had a lingering feeling that he wouldn't wake up until he was cured.

Sam hadn't so much as closed his eyes since Castiel had left…too worried that when he woke, Dean would be… _gone._ But he was so…tired. He could just rest his eyes for a minute, right? Dean would be okay…

 _No._

He shook some sense into himself and sat straighter in his chair. He moved to check his watch. Maybe it would be a good idea to check on Dean again. But the time indicated that only twenty minutes had passed since he'd last looked in on his slumbering brother.

Sam massaged his forehead with one hand, wishing internally that there was someone he could call. Normally, in this situation, he would have instantly gotten ahold of Bobby and the older hunter would probably already be at the bunker, consoling Sam and helping figure out a solution to this mess.

There was always Jody. Sam was sure that if he called, she'd swoop in to be the mother figure she was to him. But he couldn't worry her with this…it was just too big. He wasn't sure how she would react to the situation.

He wondered vaguely what Dean was dreaming about now. Hell? Lisa and Ben? Jo and Ellen? Dad? _Him?_ The possibilities were endless, and Sam wished to God that he could do something to help his brother.

But there wasn't anything. Was there ever anything he could do? He was constantly letting him down…how could he say those things to Dean? About Gadreel and tricking him into saying yes? His older sibling had only been wanting to keep his little brother with him.

Sam stood abruptly, almost growling with irritation. It had to be the hundredth time he'd guiltily ran over those words in his head…' _No, Dean. I wouldn't. Same circumstances…I wouldn't.'_

Okay, he was a dumbass, he knew that now. But he was constantly lecturing himself, reiterating at his words' invalidity. Maybe he should call Cass back, see if there was a disease having to do with guilt.

Funny.

He sure as hell wished there was a diagnosis for that disease, but no…

Guilt was all on its own.

* * *

The demon was reeling with anxiety. Hatred as well. Hatred for Sam Winchester, and especially hatred for that wretched angel. It was Castiel's fault, he had been the one to spill the beans. Now his mission had gone completely awry, and he had no _clue_ how to put it right again. Wiping the hunter's memory was out of the question, it was too risky and would confuse Sam when Castiel eventually returned.

No, he couldn't do anything rash and irreversible. What he needed to do was find Crowley and ask his advice. He was the King of Hell, he should know what he's talking about.

But first…

He had to get Sam to fall asleep. He couldn't take over his body for such a long time and then give control back to the hunter. Too much time would have passed, and Sam, being the annoying smartass he was, would probably begin to suspect something was off. Again.

Yes, he had to sleep. The demon was sure that, with the way the younger Winchester was faring now, after he passed out, he wouldn't wake for a while. He could knock him out intentionally, but it was common knowledge that the more a demon controlled his host, the more risky it became for the human inside. Sam was strong, but the demon had to admit that he'd been driving him close to the edge.

He had to make the urge to sleep stronger, try to cause it to become an overwhelming thought.

" _Sleep…"_ He whispered, that one word starting to echo through the hunter's brain. " _Sleep…"_ He repeated it over and over again, until the younger Winchester stood up for the second time, breathing heavily. He could feel him trying to resist it, wanting to stay awake for his brother. " _Sleep…"_ The demon murmured again.

That final whisper was enough to make Sam cave. The hunter's entire body seemed to succumb to the desire, and he sighed. "Fine," Sam muttered to himself. "One hour."

The demon smiled internally, satisfied with his work.

As he had predicted, the minute Sam's head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. The demon took advantage of the situation and opened his host's eyes. Finally, he could move freely. With Sam sleeping soundly within his own meatsuit, the demon could now meet with Crowley. He reached into the hunter's back pocket and retrieved his cell phone.

Crowley picked up immediately. "Something wrong, love?"

"We need to meet." The demon responded. "Now."

"Very well," Crowley sighed, as if he were destroying a perfectly nice day. Which, for the King of Hell, usually meant torturing and killing the disobedient souls and servants of Hel. "Meet me in the alleyway from before. Do not make me wait."

The line went dead, and the demon pulled the phone away from his ear. He had to do something. Sooner or later, Sam would realize he was possessed. He knew it. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn't put two and two together already. He had to make sure that he stayed safe within the hunter's meatsuit. So, the demon did the only thing he could think of…

Before meeting with Crowley, he carefully burned a binding lock onto the small of Sam's back. Concealed from the younger Winchester's view. Completely unnoticeable.

Now he was safe.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

The alleyway was as dark and foreboding as the demon remembered. Polluted and dank, with a musty odor hanging in the air. He crossed his arms and strode further into the blackness that threatened to swallow him. It didn't scare him—nothing should, after Hell—but maybe the fact that he was delivering bad news to the King of Hell made his surroundings all the more nerve-wracking.

"You made me wait, love."

Oh, right. And he was also late after Crowley had specifically told him to not be. "I apologize, sir," The demon began, trying in vain to make himself sound both professional and contrite. "I felt it necessary to take precautions after what has happened."

"Precautions?" Crowley inquired, raising an eyebrow as he stepped out of the shadows of the alley.

As a response, the demon turned around and lifted Sam's shirt, displaying the binding lock he had burned into the younger Winchester's skin not so long ago. He could feel the King of Hell's gaze boring into him, seemingly demanding an explanation. The demon turned back and took a deep breath before speaking.

"The angel knows." He frowned to himself as he felt Sam fidget inside him. _Sleep._ He told the hunter quietly. "He knows about the disease. He found a record in the Men of Letters' library. And he told Sam."

Crowley lifted a hand to his face and rubbed his temple, looking stressed. "Honestly, can nothing go my way nowadays?" He let out a melodramatic sigh and gestured aimlessly to the demon. "You did the right thing, though, darling. You expressed your doubt about Sam discovering you, it was a smart move to lock yourself in his body."

"As I said, sir, I felt it necessary." The demon answered respectfully before falling silent.

"Did you hear the exact details about the disease?" Crowley asked, beginning to pace back and forth restlessly. "I feel I may have acted a tad bit too soon. I know virtually nothing about it, despite the fact that it is caused by a Nephilim, and it kills you through your worst memories."

"In the form of dreams." The demon added impulsively. Crowley shot him an exasperated look that clearly stated that he knew that already, but said nothing in response. His silence was obviously his cue to continue. "From what the angel said, the disease is called _'Mortem per somniatis',_ or _'death by dreams'..."_ The demon trailed off, thinking.

"Yes, yes, I know that," Crowley said impatiently. "Tell me something I'm not already aware of."

"Castiel mentioned that the disease produces a residue, which, if touched, will cause the illness to spread to the person it came in contact with. They found the residue being ejected from Dean's body, so it is officially confirmed that he has the disease." Crowley nodded for him to continue. "The angel also found from the text that there is...a cure."

"A cure?" Crowley abruptly stopped pacing, freezing in his tracks. "Did the record have the ingredients?"

"No." The demon assured him. "But it stated where they could find the list."

"And where is that?" Crowley demanded.

"Heaven," He said slowly. "It's in Heaven, and Castiel is trying to find a way to get to it. I assume he's no longer your informant? He seems to be shamelessly working against you."

"I don't doubt it," Crowley muttered to himself. "I haven't heard from him since our last meeting. We aren't exactly on the best of terms, and I did threaten to kill the Winchesters if he didn't cooperate. Obviously...I lied, and I can't use that against him now. But, no matter, he's no use to me anymore. Now that Dean is clearly being taken over by this disease, you will be able to meet with me more frequently."

"And I will when necessary, sir, I promise," The demon replied. "Is there anything you suggest I do?"

"Well, it seems my old friend Cass in search of the ingredients. Since we want the disease to carry out its job, I propose..." Crowley trailed off, a sinister grin forming on his lips. "We get to the ingredients." His smile remained intact.

"First come, first serve, after all."

* * *

The demon strode away from the alley, biting his lip. It had become a habit of his since he'd taken on Sam Winchester as his host. For all he knew, maybe it was a habit of the hunter's as well.

But as he walked in the opposite direction of his king, he couldn't help but question Crowley's actions. Why not simply _kill_ the older Winchester? That way he wouldn't have to deal with the disease or even the First Blade. Did he want to make Dean's death poetic in a way? _'Killed by his own hatred for himself',_ or, if it came to it, _'killed by the very weapon he was searching for'._

Or was he trying to give himself a low profile by letting the disease take its toll? To make sure he wasn't framed for Dean's death? It was a smart plan, but it required much more thought than a simple stab to the heart. The demon couldn't help but think…

What would Crowley do if he went against direct orders? Instead of allowing future events to unfold, he could just as easily take the Blade and kill Dean. Sure, Sam and Cass would be completely nonplussed when Dean disappeared, but it was by no means out of the question. Hell, the demon could even use a regular blade, instead of making the hunter's death _'poetic'._

Thankfully, Sam was still sound asleep inside his own meatsuit, and for that the demon was thankful. A little peace and quiet while still in control was all he needed to refresh himself. With Dean taken over by the disease and Sam asleep...that was something. It was the first time it had happened since he'd possessed Sam. And he planned to savor it.

The minute he entered the bunker once again, he strode right to the air conditioning unit. In seconds, the Blade was in his hands. It would be so easy, to just stab it into Dean's heart. It would all be over then, and he could simply burn the binding lock off Sam's back and disappear out of the Winchester's life for good. It would leave Sam confused and heartbroken, but, then again, he was a demon. Empathy wasn't in his nature.

Sometimes that was a good thing.

He nodded to himself. It was the right thing to do. He _was_ going against Crowley's orders, which was a huge risk. But soon enough the King of Hell would understand why he did it. After all, Crowley knew how the Winchesters and their angel friend were. They came up with a solution for everything and escaped disaster just in the nick of time.

He didn't want that to happen again. This was something he had to do. Anyway, Crowley had said himself if worse came to worst to do so.

But should he use _the_ Blade? It was almost too risky. If Sam took control afterwards…and discovered what it was…that wouldn't be good. So he safely stored the First Blade back in its hiding place and instead grabbed ahold of the nearest weapon he could find…a regular, conventional dagger, and gripped it tightly.

It was time for the world to say its goodbyes to Dean Winchester…

For Crowley.

* * *

Sam was drifting. No, he was falling. Or was he standing still? It was hard to tell. He felt as if he were living inside his own head. Not metaphorically, but literally. His surroundings were only a blur, and he could feel himself moving. But he wasn't falling. He was simply...walking.

But he wasn't moving his limbs. Someone...some _thing_ else was.

Then the movements stopped, and he found himself standing still. Sam tried to blink, to see if he could move at least one of the hundreds of muscles in his body. Nothing, as he had to admit he had suspected. _Goddammit._ He thought to himself.

Whatever was controlling him faltered slightly at his quiet thought, but Sam wasn't awarded with a bigger reaction. He felt his arms lifting themselves, and he struggled to see what was happening in front of him. He sensed something gripped in his fingers, but he couldn't decipher what. It seemed like the hilt of a knife, but Sam wasn't entirely sure.

Finally, his vision began to clear...his surroundings gradually fading back into focus.

And the first thing Sam caught sight of was dagger hovering above his comatose brother's torso, light glinting off its steel surface. Shock sparked in his brain, and adrenaline rocketed through him.

 _GET AWAY!_

His thought was so loud that the thing controlling him stumbled backwards and tumbled down to the floor. As it attempted to use _his_ body to stand up, Sam pushed his mind against his controller's, adrenaline still coursing through his body. His hand shot out and collided with a mirror.

Glass shattered and pain flared from his skin. This... _thing_ was still in control, and it shot a glance at a shard of glass on the floor. Fear hurtled through Sam as he caught sight of the color of his eyes. As black as night.

It was a demon.

A cry of agony escaped his lips, emitted by the black-eyed son of a bitch or himself, Sam wasn't sure. But he only pressed harder, fighting as hard as he could for control.

And then it was as if the demon gave up.

The intensifying pressure in his head disappeared, and his limbs didn't move without his telling them to. Sam twitched his fingers, testing to see if they obeyed, and he huffed out a sigh of relief.

But it was short-lived.

There was a _demon_ inside of his body. First an angel, now a demon? Couldn't he friggin' catch a break? He ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the beads of sweat that had formed on his face. How the hell was he going to deal with this? He didn't want to call Cass, the angel was too busy trying to figure out a way into Heaven to help Dean…

 _Dean._

Sam's heart lurched and he froze. The last time he'd looked at his brother, a knife had been just inches from his abdomen. He closed his eyes and prayed to God—in case he was actually listening and caring—that Dean was okay. Slowly, he turned to face his brother.

And found that very same knife embedded deep into the older Winchester's torso, blood already soaking his black t-shirt.

* * *

"No..."

Sam whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief. _"No!"_ He rushed forwards and slowly pulled the blade from his brother's stomach. Dean let out an audible gasp, and Sam's gaze snapped to the other hunter's face. "Dean...?" Had the pain finally caused his brother to surface to consciousness? To actually wake up from his disease-induced sleep?

But Dean uttered no response. If he had been conscious for even a second, it was quite clear that he was far gone now. Sam's shoulders dropped, and he swiftly began to unbutton his shirt, he would have to use it to stop the blood from flowing.

He succeeded in getting the first two buttons loose without a problem, but when he reached the third his hands began to shake as he saw the gigantic pool of blood forming in a puddle around his brother's waist. He gave up trying to unbutton his shirt and simply ripped it open. He pressed the shirt against Dean's open, gushing wound.

 _I don't have any choice but to bring him to the hospital now._

He slowly leaned down so that his ear was just millimeters away from Dean's slightly-parted mouth. He was still breathing. Sam just had to figure out how to breathe now.

 _He's had worse than this. Get ahold of yourself._ He thought sourly before taking action.

After some difficulty, Sam managed to get Dean into the backseat of the Impala where he could lay comfortably.

He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"Don't worry, Dean," Sam said to his brother, even though he couldn't hear him. "You're gonna be just fine."

* * *

 _Dean wasn't sure where the hell he was. He registered that he was lying on cold, hard ground on his back. He flexed his frozen fingers, and found himself clutching a stiff clump of frost-covered grass. His lashes, dusted with frost as well, fluttered open and he gasped in a strangled intake of breath. His eyes were met with the sight of the star-speckled night sky._

 _"Dean!?"_

 _Dad? He hazily lifted his head. Was that Dad? Where was he?_

 _"Dean! Where the_ hell _are you?"_

 _"D—" Dean tried to call out for his father, but his words got caught in his throat. He swallowed to clear his throat and inhaled deeply before trying again. "_ Dad! _I'm here!"_

 _He heard the sound of quickly-approaching footsteps and struggled into a sitting position. He groaned out as his back flared with pain when he sat up. He reached back and put his hand up his shirt, feeling for a wound. His fingers grazed across what felt like claw marks and he cringed when he even just barely touched the injury. When he pulled his hand back, he found his fingers sticky with blood._

 _Then it all came rushing back._

 _Why he was out here. The hunt. His sixteen-year-old geek-boy brother staying back to study for a math test the next day. Splitting up with Dad to cover more ground. The werewolf, with its kill-driven eyes and fangs stained with dried human blood. He'd aimed and fired at the thing with a silver bullet, but he wasn't sure where it had hit the werewolf or if he had missed it altogether. Then there had been an excruciating pain in his back, and then...nothing._

 _Until he woke up here._

 _He struggled to revive himself and stole a glance around. And then he saw it. The muscular man lying just a few feet away from him._ He _had been the werewolf, and Dean had killed him. A lucky shot, that was it._

 _But the werewolf had gotten him too. His wound still stung with every movement he made._

 _He couldn't let Dad know. He wanted his father to be proud of him, and not worried. Would Dad even be_ angry _if he found out that his eldest, most obedient son had been injured?_

 _Dean didn't know why he was thinking that way...maybe it was the deliria. But he wouldn't tell his father. For once, he wanted Dad to just be proud of him...nothing else. So he stumbled to his feet, biting his tongue to keep himself from letting out a long groan of agony. He quickly shrugged on his jacket to hide the claw marks slicing straight through his shirt._

 _"Dean! There you are!"_

 _Dean looked up just in time to see his father loping out of the trees into the clearing. "Yeah, I'm here." Dean responded weakly, trying to keep the pain out of his voice._

 _John Winchester skidded to a halt as he caught sight of the man lying dead on his back. "Dean—is that...?" He trailed off, staring at his eldest son in amazement. "It is, isn't it? The werewolf?"_

 _Dean forced a triumphant smile onto his face. "Yeah. Lucky shot, I guess..." That was definitely the truth._

 _"Lucky shot!?" John echoed, letting out a satisfied chuckle. "Dean, you hit that beast right in the heart. If that was a lucky shot, then you've got some damn good skills there, son."_

 _"Thanks, Dad." Dean answered, glowing with happiness from his father's praise._

 _"Well, let's get rid of the body and head back to your brother. Sammy will be disappointed to have missed out on this hunt, don't you think?" Dean failed to acknowledge that comment. He knew his little brother well enough to know that Sam wouldn't give a damn about anything having to do with hunting._

 _It just wasn't in his blood. Dean would do anything to be able to hunt beside his brother, doing their best to enjoy the fact that even though they've got practically the worst job on the planet, they're still saving people from the evil of the world._

 _On the way back to the motel, Dean was starting to have regrets about not telling Dad that he was hurt. The wound was throbbing like a bitch, forceful enough to make his entire brain pulse._

 _He sat in the passenger seat of the Impala that he had always hoped would someday be his. Dad had let him drive her a couple of times, but Dean knew for a fact that his father cherished the car and would do just about anything to make sure that she wasn't damaged._

 _Dean cast a glance at his father, hoping that, by some miracle, John Winchester would notice that he was hurt. That way he wouldn't have to stoop to the level of admitting that he was injured. He'd just feel like an idiot. And weak._

 _But Dad didn't give him a second glance._

 _Sam was still studying when they arrived back at the motel room, hunched over a math textbook with a concentrated crease in his forehead. He scarcely looked up as Dean entered the room with John following suit. "How'd it go?" He had the courtesy to ask, but it was obvious he had no interest in the hunt._

 _"We busted his ass, Sammy," Dean responded, wishing that his father would leave, even for just a few minutes. Because Sam would know what to do, and he wouldn't be ashamed of his older brother for not being strong enough._

 _John stripped off his jacket, ripping away all promises of departing again, and he gave Dean a questioning look. "You gonna take off your jacket, son?"_

 _Dean shook his head. "Nah, think I'm good." He hoped to God that his father would drop the subject. Thankfully, Dad just shrugged and turned away, reaching for a beer. Dean couldn't help but notice that his father's shoulders were unnaturally tense._

 _Sam glanced up from his textbook at Dean, confusion clear in his eyes at his sibling's refusal to remove his jacket. Dean ignored his brother's expression and looked away._

 _"Sam."_

 _John's voice was low and emotionless. Dean knew that tone. His heart lurched and he saw his younger brother swallow harshly._ No. _Dean thought desperately._ Not now, please don't pick a fight now, Dad.

 _"I want to speak to you." His father said to Sam._

 _"I'm gonna—go the bathroom..." Dean walked away abruptly. Soon,_ 'speaking' _would turn to_ 'yelling' _and then eventually to_ 'massacre'. _He closed the door to the bathroom just as John's voice became hostile. He knew his father was pissed about Sam refusing to accompany them on the hunt._

 _He strode in front of the mirror and stripped off his coat. He reached back and lifted his shirt, wincing as the fabric scraped against the bloodied wound. Dean faced his back to the mirror and stared over his shoulder in shock at the ghastly injury. It was still trickling blood, and it looked fairly serious. The werewolf had dug in deep...no wonder he'd passed out._

 _It was unreachable to the point where he couldn't reach back and treat it, so Dean let his blood-stained shirt fall back over his torso and slid to the ground. He didn't bother to put his jacket back on as he heard Sam and John's voices beginning to raise._

 _Instead, he used his coat as a pillow as he leaned against the edge of the bathtub. He closed his eyes and listened the sound of his brother and father's muffled yelling._

 _Here he was, injured and bloody, with the two people he loved most in the world screaming their lungs out at each other in the next room. What a friggin' awful life he had._

 _Dean fell asleep with that thought seared in his brain, passing out from pain in the bathroom of a crappy motel room._

* * *

Dean had been admitted into the ICU when the doctor who treated him in the ER announced that his heart was beating at an unstable rhythm, most likely caused by the stabbing. From what the doctor had told him, Sam understood that his brother needed to be _'closely monitored'_ so that a heart attack didn't occur.

Sam didn't like this. Dean's surgery had been successful, thankfully, but Sam was still worried about his brother's heart. Was the increased and unsteady beating due to the stabbing, like the doctor claimed, or was it _'Mortem per somniatis'_? It could be either, but Sam had a sinking feeling it was the disease.

He sat in the waiting room, unable to keep his feet still. Why wouldn't they let him see his brother? He was family. The minute that thought crossed his mind, a voice sounded.

"Sam Angus?"

His head burst up, and he shot to his feet. "Is Dean okay?" He asked desperately. The nurse simply gestured for him to follow her, which he did. Their shoes tapped in harmony against the linoleum floor, the only sound in the hallway except for the steady beeping of machines in the multiple rooms they passed.

"We managed to stabilize your brother," The nurse informed him. "The anesthesia from his surgery is still wearing off, but he will most likely remain comatose. He's experiencing shortness of breath, but you have no need to worry. It's one of the common post-surgery complications that will eventually wear off. But for now, we're keeping him on a breathing tube to help him breathe."

They passed through the double doors marked _'Intensive Care Unit'_ and Sam took an unsteady breath. "Here we are." The nurse said finally. "Please wash your hands in that sink over there before entering the room. Dean's in the third to last bed on the right side. You may draw the curtain if you feel you need privacy."

"Thank you." Sam answered, relieved that she was going to leave him alone with his brother. He obliged to her command of washing his hands, and hesitantly headed into the room where he found several patients who all happened to be either comatose like Dean or heavily sedated.

Sam found Dean in no time, but for a minute he was unsure that it was actually his brother. Because this isn't what Dean Winchester looked like. Dean Winchester was almost always smiling, cracking jokes, unable to sit still for even a minute. Not the pale, motionless man in the bed before him.

That was when Sam realized that he was remembering the Dean who didn't have the Mark, the Dean that hadn't gone through Hell or Purgatory, the Dean who hadn't lost Lisa, Ben, Bobby, Jo…

He was remembering the Dean who had come to get him at Stanford. The one who never failed to make him loosen up and laugh.

That Dean was long gone.

As the nurse had given him permission to do, Sam drew the curtains so he could be alone with his brother after pulling up a chair beside Dean's bed. "Hey, man." He said slowly. He'd always found it awkward speaking to his brother when he was sedated or comatose. Maybe because he wasn't sure if he could hear him or not. He took a deep breath and continued nonetheless.

"Listen, Dean. You gotta hold on, okay? I know that you're trapped in there. Bad memory after bad memory...it must be hell. Literally." He chuckled without amusement at his own words. "But you've got good memories, too, you know? You may not be living through them, but you can always think of them. Remember the good in life?"

Of course, he was granted no response. Still, he kept talking.

"Dean, try to remember the time when you came and got me from school. I know you would never admit it, man...but I could see the clear joy in your eyes when I agreed to come find Dad with you. Just think about that moment when I agreed. That's what started everything, right? If you hadn't come to get me...where would I be now? Some stuffy lawyer married with a kid."

He huffed out a breath. "Maybe not. Yellow Eyes would've gotten Jess either way, I guess. I would've gotten pulled back in somehow. I'm just glad that you were the one to do it."

Sam rested his fingers over Dean's slack hand. "Just think positive, okay, man? Cass and I are gonna pull you outta this mess. I promise." He sat with his eyes locked on Dean's unconscious face. How many times had he been in this situation? A lot. And Dean always pulled through. Why was he having doubts now?

He patted his brother's hand one last time and stood, pushing aside the curtain and striding away from Dean's bed without a glance back. Determination was flowing through his veins.

He was going to get rid of this damn demon.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

"You came." Castiel kept his voice controlled when he spoke, striding towards where the seventeen-year-old boy sat like a stone at the table. "I thought you wouldn't." He took a seat across from the boy. "Interesting choice of location...a coffee shop. And interesting choice of vessel."

The boy looked at him, his face emotionless. "I would say the same, Castiel, but you've had the same body for almost six years." His words would be amusing, but his eyes remained dull and expressionless. "What is it you want, brother?"

Castiel scoffed lightly. "You, Eremiel, still consider me as your brother? I'm surprised."

"Castiel," The other angel began. "I haven't time for this foolishness. Metatron is awaiting my presence. What do you need?" Eremiel sat back in the chair and impatiently crossed his arms.

He looked rather comical in his vessel's hoodie sweatshirt and blue jeans. Castiel decided not to mention that. "Eremiel, we were in the same garrison before...before everything happened..."

"Before you betrayed Heaven," Eremiel corrected him, a hint of long-suppressed anger in his tone. "Remember you are the one who turned your back on our Father. You made the decision on your own free will."

"That's beside the point, Eremiel," Castiel reprimanded the other angel. "You know I made that decision for an honorable cause." Eremiel looked away, pursing his lips and failing to respond. "But, as I was saying, we were in the same garrison. We were friends. _Brothers._ It may not be the same now, but the least you can do is help me."

"Depends on what you're asking." Eremiel replied, his voice still controlled and emotionless. "As I said, I have an appointment and I can't be kept from it much longer. Tell me what you need or I'll be forced to leave."

"Fine." Castiel couldn't help but allow a sour tone to slip into his voice. "I'll just be blunt, because I don't think there's any other way I can say this..." He trailed off and looked Eremiel straight in the eye. "I need to get into Heaven. Secretly."

Eremiel didn't so much as blink before responding. "Why?"

"There's a list I need to find. Of ingredients that will cure the disease called _'Mortem per somniatis'."_ Castiel fell silent, waiting for a reaction, but none came. "It would be protected by the safest place in Heaven. Where would that be?"

"Metatron's office." Eremiel replied without a second thought. He still didn't appear as if he were going to oblige to Castiel's request. "Who is the cure for?"

Castiel was hating the other angel's expressionless tone. Was this he himself sounded like to Sam and Dean? "A friend."

"A _human_ friend, no doubt. Probably one of those _Winchesters._ " Eremiel spat. "I am sorry, Castiel, but your personal issues are no business of mine or Heaven's." He stood to leave.

"Eremiel, wait." Castiel shot to his feet, almost knocking his chair over. "Angels are supposed to help human beings. You most of all should know that." Both of them were frozen, Castiel's gaze focused on the other angel, and Eremiel's eyes narrowed in thought.

After a few beats, Eremiel took a deep breath and shook his head. "It is true...we do what we can to help God's other creations. But we have helped the Winchesters one too many times. You are emotionally-attached, Castiel. That's what caused your downfall."

"Eremiel, this is bigger than just Winchesters," Castiel replied hotly. "The last time this disease hit, it spread like wildfire. It's highly contagious once the residue from the originator is touched. After that, it can simply be spread through human contact."

"An ancient epidemic..." Eremiel murmured to himself. He fell silent for a long while after that...long enough for Castiel to begin losing hope. But, finally, after a long pause, the other angel spoke. "If what you say is true, that the disease will spread, that is something I cannot ignore. Knowing Metatron, he couldn't care less about the humans' welfare, so this will have to be kept quiet from him and Gadreel, his second-in-command."

Castiel nodded. "Yes...but will you help me?"

Eremiel closed his eyes and exhaled deeply through his nose. "I will, brother. Preventing a deadly plague from humanity matters much more to me than risking Metatron's trust."

"Thank you, Eremiel." Castiel sighed, relieved. "What do you propose for a strategy? I can't very well walk into Heaven...I don't even have an idea of the whereabouts of Metatron's secret entrance."

"I trust that you will be able to locate this list of ingredients," Eremiel responded. "I am on-duty soon for guarding Heaven's gate. I will distract my fellow sentry and let you in along with myself. Leaving the entrance unguarded will be hazardous, but it's a risk I'm willing to take." He ran a hand through his vessel's thick dark hair and shook his head. "I cannot believe I am aiding Heaven's most wanted."

"Don't worry, Eremiel," Castiel assured him, resting a hand on the other angel's shoulder. "It's for a good cause. With your help, will I be able to safely slip into Metatron's office unnoticed?"

"I cannot guarantee it, but the odds are in your favor." Eremiel replied. He grabbed the pen his waiter had left on the table and scrawled something on a napkin. "We will meet in three days' time at high noon." He handed the napkin to Castiel. "Do not make me wait. If you do, I will not attempt another move against this plague."

"I'll be there." Castiel answered, studying the address on the napkin. He looked up at Eremiel, who gave him a half-smile.

"See you in three days." The other angel said before disappearing.

* * *

Sam stumbled into the nearest bathroom as he exited the ICU. His heart had traveled up to his throat, the image of his brother's pale unconscious form lying in the hospital bed was too much for him to bear. Hooked up to machine after machine, a breathing tube stuck down his throat...Sam hated it.

He had originally pitied the Nephilim, Charity. She'd been living a crappy life, born from a human and an angel...he couldn't blame her bitterness towards the world. But now he was _glad_ that his brother had cut her throat...but he would've done _much_ worse. Was she aware of the residue she gave off? Did she know what it did to a human being?

That was beside the point now. She was dead, and that was all Sam wanted her to be. Now he had a demon and a dying brother to worry about.

First things first...the demon. He found it rather bizarre to exorcise a demon _inside_ him with his own words, and he wasn't even sure it would work, so he dug out his phone. He found the voice recording of the exorcism that he'd recently created, and hesitated with his thumb hovering above the _'Play'_ button.

Was the demon possessing him smarter than this? Would it suspect that Sam would attempt to do this if he found out? He couldn't be sure, but this was the best he could do for now. If it didn't work, he would just have to figure something else out. But getting rid of this meddling demon was his biggest priority at the moment, and he had to expel it somehow so that he could focus solely on his brother.

So, without a second thought, he played the recording, and the words he'd dedicated so much time to learning flooded through the walls of the temporarily-abandoned bathroom.

" _'Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.'_ " The first verse was completed, and Sam hadn't felt so much as a pull inside himself. Was he supposed to? The exorcism continued, and Sam internally recited the translated words in his mind…

 _Therefore, cursed demon…_

" _'Ergo, draco maledicte, ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.'_ " The voice recording ended, and the silence left surrounding Sam was seemingly deafening.

Nothing.

Defeat filled Sam to the brim, weighing him down. It hadn't worked. He mentally ran through everything he'd read on demons in his lifetime...did the demon have to be in control of its host to be exorcised? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was completely at a loss for what he should do now.

Them something clicked inside him, and name ran through his mind, like a ghost from his past…

 _Julia Wright._

That poor woman who'd been impregnated and possessed by a demon for nine months before giving birth to the Cambion, Jesse Turner. Dean and Sam had never run into the kid again, so over the years, that case had been banished to the depths of his subconscious. Funny how he just now remembered it.

Julia, fully aware that there was a demon inside her, had exorcised it herself by pouring salt down her throat. It had practically forced the demon out of her body. It was a long shot, but worth a try.

He exited the bathroom and headed down towards the lobby of the hospital. He and Dean always kept extra salt and iron in the trunk of the Impala along with their weapons.

Once he had the trunk open and a bag of salt in his hand, Sam ducked into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. He held the small burlap sack in his palm as if it were a bomb waiting to explode.

Sam didn't know what he was going to do if this didn't work. He'd run out of any other clever ideas, so this was going to have to be his last play for now. He inhaled deeply before holding his breath, tipping his head back, and pouring the salt down his throat.

* * *

He was on fire.

The demon writhed and screamed within Sam's body, the pain physically unbearable. It was as if the younger Winchester had poured crystallized acid into his body. It felt as though he had never experienced such agony, but he knew that there'd been worse than this. His death...the torture in Hell...also, the transition from abused soul to demon had been no picnic.

But this was among the worst. Of all the vessels he'd taken, no one had ever attempted this. But maybe that was because that his previous hosts had never been aware that they'd had a demon inside of them.

He wanted to leave. To escape this hell and go find some other poor bastard to possess...preferably a female host, this time. But the binding lock kept him in place, trapped inside this meatsuit that was starting to annoy him. A lot.

But after what felt like years, the pain faded to a dull sting here and there, and Sam emitted a small sigh of frustration. It was clear now that the hunter didn't have another witty move.

Now was his chance.

The demon subtly sent the urge to see Dean into Sam's mind. Just a quiet wish whisking through the younger Winchester's brain. He felt Sam's limbs begin to move, and before he knew it, the hunter was heading back into the hospital.

He could sense Sam's confusion as he found himself once more standing over Dean's unconscious form. A million thoughts were running through Sam's brain, and the demon could barely process them as they flew by. The only thing he could decipher was Sam's fear for his brother's welfare.

The demon ignored Sam's incessant slew of thoughts and took a minute to study Dean himself. He looked...dead. The demon couldn't help but smirk mentally as Sam caught wind of that factor. He continued to assess the older Winchester's motionless, pallid form.

That's when he saw it.

The small trickle of a thick dark liquid now leaking from Dean's left nostril. That was it. The residue. He carefully took a stronger hold of the invisible reins of Sam's mind and urged the hunter to reach a finger out.

Trembling, Sam's muscles obeyed, and the demon pushed his index finger farther. An inch. Then a millimeter…

And it happened. Sam's skin came in contact with the residue. The demon expected something to happen...maybe a sizzle, a spark...hell, even a crack of thunder. But there was nothing. He gave complete control back to Sam, and the younger Winchester stumbled backwards, looking horrified. One thought ran through his mind, so loud that the demon could've sworn it was his.

 _What the hell have I done?_

* * *

 _There was a rushing sensation in Dean's head...getting louder and adding more pressure into his brain. What was happening? Dean was trying desperately to grab control of his mind and figure out what was going on, but all he could see was blackness. The rushing in his ears was almost deafening now, and his head was pounding uncontrollably._

 _When the thought finally crossed his mind that he couldn't handle this anymore, he gasped out as his eyelids flew open and he was momentarily blinded by the intense light flooding into his vision. Dean attempted to take another gulp of air, but something was blocking his lungs from inhaling. Was that a tube stuck down his throat?_

 _He panicked, choking, and he could've sworn that he heard his brother's voice, seemingly in the far distance…_

 _"Dean!?_ Help! _I need_ help! _"_

 _Everything was a blur until Dean finally felt whatever was blocking his air supply being taken away and he could breathe again. Then he was slipping away again, exhaustion taking over him._

 _When he finally woke again, he opened his eyes and his gaze cleared, becoming accustomed to the light. As his vision gradually slid into focus, the first thing he caught sight of was his brother's face._

 _"...S'mmy?" He mumbled, blinking several times. His sibling looked exhausted, and his left eye was still bruised from that demon beating the crap out of him. Sam would probably look much worse if Dean hadn't killed the bastard with a shot to the head from the Colt._

 _"Yeah, Dean, it's me." Sam's voice sounded incredibly relieved. "How you doing, man?"_

 _The nurse on his right side lifted the bed, pulling him into a sitting position. She fixed his pillows and left, probably to retrieve his doctor. "Um...okay, I guess?" He phrased his response as more of a question. "What happened?"_

 _Sam shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't know, man, you tell me. One minute you were dying, the next, you just...woke up." He chuckled lightly. "I knew you'd beat that reaper's ass."_

 _Dean stared at his brother in confusion. "Wait, what you talking about? Reaper?"_

 _Sam frowned at him, obviously just as miffed as him. "You don't remember?"_

 _"Remember what?"_

 _Before Sam had a chance to reply, the doctor appeared at the door, knocking lightly before entering. "So, I heard my patient's awake now? You're lucky to be alive, son."_

 _He strode to Dean's bedside with a clipboard in hand and sighed deeply. "We performed some conventional tests on you while you were asleep. And, honestly...I can't explain it. The edema's vanished. The internal contusions are healed. Your vitals are good. You have some kind of angel watching over you."_

 _"Thanks, doc." Dean said slowly, his mind reeling. What could have possibly occurred for that to happen? His doctor left, and Dean turned back to Sam. "So you said a reaper was after me?"_

 _"Yeah." Sam replied._

 _Dean paused, thinking. "How'd I ditch it?"_

 _"You got me." His brother said. "Dean, you really don't remember anything?" He sounded perplexed._

 _"No." Dean was being completely honest with the other hunter. But he did feel something, a hint that something had happened that he just couldn't put his finger on. And it felt...weird. "Except this...pit in my stomach. Sam, something's wrong."_

 _Before Sam could answer, there was another knock on his door. They both looked up to find Dad hovering in the doorway. Dean felt sudden relief as he met his father's gaze. John Winchester always managed to make him feel like everything was going to be all right._

 _"How you feeling, dude?" John asked his son._

 _There was something about Dad's voice that didn't sound right. A hint of melancholy that his father seemed to be suppressing. "Fine, I guess." Dean responded. "I'm alive."_

 _"That's what matters." John answered, smiling sadly._

 _"Where were you last night?" Sam demanded, staring angrily at his father. Dean closed his eyes. He knew where this was heading, and he didn't want to be the peacekeeper at the moment...especially since he'd just escaped death._

 _"I had some things to take care of." John replied, his answer rather vague._

 _"Well, that's specific." Sam commented sarcastically. He looked as if he were going to say something, and Dean attempted to intervene before his brother could start something bigger._

 _"Come on, Sam..."_

 _The younger Winchester ignored him. "Did you go after the demon?"_

 _"No." John answered. His response sounded truthful enough._

 _"You know...why don't I believe you right now?" Sam inquired heatedly, his tone becoming more hostile. His gaze was flaring with anger, his hands clenching and unclenching as if he were trying to prevent himself from lunging at his father._

 _John was quiet for a minute before he replied, sounding tired. "Can we not fight?" He asked, his tone subtly pleading. "You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads. Sammy..." Dean heard sadness slip into his father's voice. I—I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?"_

 _There was a brief pause, and then Sam responded, sounding mildly bewildered. "Dad, are you all right?"_

 _"Yeah..." John chuckled sadly. "Yeah, I'm just a little tired. Hey, son...would you, uh, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?" Dad's voice was hollow as he spoke, and Dean still couldn't figure out what was wrong with his father._

 _"Yeah. Yeah, sure." Sam slowly exited the room, staring at his father with a befuddled frown on his face. John watched his youngest son leave with a sadness that Dean didn't understand._

 _Now that Sam was gone, Dean questioned his father. "What is it?"_

 _John turned back to Dean, a sad smile etched into his face. When he spoke, he didn't answer Dean's question. "You know, when you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen, I'd be...I'd be wrecked. And you...you'd come up to me, and you...you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd...you'd say,_ 'It's okay, Dad' _." He paused, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Dean...I'm sorry."_

 _"For what?" Dean asked quietly._

 _"You shouldn't have had to say that to me. I should have been saying that to you." Dean could definitely see more tears gathering in his father's eyes, but he didn't know what to do. He was frozen in the spot. He'd never, in all his years with him, seen John Winchester open up like this. He let his father continue. "You know, I put...I put too much on your shoulders. I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once." He paused for a second. "I just want you to know that I am so proud of you." John's voice cracked mid-sentence._

 _Dean found the courage to respond. "This really you talking?"_

 _John smiled sadly. "Yeah. Yeah, it's really me."_

 _"Why are you saying this stuff?" Dean wanted a straight answer, but his father didn't give him one. Instead, he leaned closer, resting a reassuring hand on his oldest son's shoulder._

 _"I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?"_

 _Dean had heard that line a million times, and he nodded shakily. "Yeah, Dad, you know I will." He continued staring at his father. "You're scaring me." It was hard to admit to John of all people, but Dad didn't so much as blink._

 _"Don't be scared, Dean."_

 _John came even closer until his lips were against his son's ear. And what he whispered to him caused Dean's entire body to freeze up. He pulled back in shock, processing what his father had just said to him. John gave him one last smile before leaving._

 _That was the last time he ever saw him._

 _He was left alone in his hospital room, but not for long. Soon, Sam came staggering through. "Dean!" He gasped out, his eyes wide with shock. "It's Dad..." He supported his older brother to the room where they were doing compressions on their father. A nurse tried to usher them away, but Dean protested._

 _"No, no, no, it's our dad. It's our dad!" He was pleading with her. "Come on."_

 _"Okay, stop compressions." He heard the doctor say._

 _"Come on, come on..." Dean muttered under his breath. Sam was still clutching onto Dean, both of them supporting each other, physically and mentally. The next thing he knew, the nurses and doctors pulled away from John._

 _"Okay, that's it, everybody." The doctor said, sounding defeated. Dean stared in shock. "I'll call it..."_

 _"Time of death; 10:41 am."_

 _And just like that, his father was gone._

* * *

His entire body shook with pleasure as he pressed down on the plunger of the syringe again. He felt the thick human blood connect with his own blood and continue through his bloodstream. The feeling was indescribable. It made him feel powerful. It made him feel weak. It made him feel _human._

He just wanted to _feel_ something.

He laid back on the plush pillow of the bed, gasping with every single feeling hitting him at full force. Love collided with hate, sympathy battled against hostility...it was a war of the emotions inside him...

And he bloody _loved_ it. He _cherished_ it. Held onto the sensation as if it were a lifesaver. _This_ was what life after death should be. Crowley recalled the first time the human blood had entered his bloodstream, powerful and dangerous and entrancing…

 _This_ was his addiction.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

The playground that Eremiel had instructed Castiel to be at was vacant. Clearly, everything was going as planned for now. But Cass refused to have false hopes. He knew that if Metatron or Gadreel discovered either of them, it was over. Dean was dead and Crowley won. He couldn't let that happen.

The angel approached the playground slowly, examining the area with careful observation. So this was where human children played. He didn't think that he would enjoy it if he were one of them...all the brightly-colored bars and swings seemed like a complicated maze to him. But he shook off his confusion at how this place would be entertaining and focused on the task at hand.

Metatron's secret entrance into Heaven was _here,_ in this playground. Hidden somewhere from all of the oblivious children and parents who were completely oblivious to the fact that they were frolicking on top of the Gates of Heaven themselves.

"Castiel."

The voice that spoke his name was not one that Cass expected. He turned to face his greeter and found a young boy, who couldn't have been more than seven, standing before him. But he immediately recognized him. "Eremiel. Is everything going as planned?"

"Indeed. My fellow sentry has been properly taken care of." The other angel responded in a business-like manner. "She will awaken in a few hours, which is hopefully all the time we need."

"We'll make it work." Castiel promised him. He stole another glance around the playground. "The entrance?" He asked.

Eremiel nodded and headed straight for what Castiel remembered was called a sandbox. Grabbing ahold of a nearby stick, Eremiel stepped up on the edges of the sandbox and began to trace something into the sand. As the drawing came together, Castiel realized that it was a sigil for a spell. Eremiel stepped back when he was finished, and the sigil began to glow.

"Shall we?" Eremiel inquired, gesturing to the portal.

Castiel dipped his head and stepped straight into the light. He felt it wash over him, warm and inviting and pure. Everything Heaven's atmosphere should feel like. He was surprised when he realized he'd actually _missed_ it. But he could never be a true angel...not ever again, especially now that Metatron was working behind the scenes as _'God'..._ more accurately, while _thinking_ he was God.

When his vision cleared, Castiel found himself standing before a long row of pure white cubicles. He studied everything intently, seeing if he recognized any of the angels from his glory days, but Eremiel yanked him back, into the darkness. "Stay back!" He hissed in his ear, having to pull Castiel down due to his vessel's size. "Or was your plan to get caught?"

"Sorry." Castiel replied, straightening up and looking down at Eremiel. "Where to?"

"Follow me." The other angel instructed, stealing a wary glance at the angels working tirelessly for Metatron's desires, unaware of their master's cruel and unprincipled deception.

They slipped through the shadows, silent and steady. Eremiel seemed certain of his way, allowing Castiel to be clear of any suspicions towards the other angels' knowledge and skill.

Soon enough, the door to Metatron's office was before them. Castiel stood rigidly. "What now?" He asked.

Eremiel gave him a look that clearly suggested he was fed up with Cass's imbecility, which appeared rather comical due to the angel's seven-year-old body. "We open the door, pick up our vessels' feet, and walk inside. Or would you rather float?"

Castiel ignored the other angel's jibe and slowly rested his hand on the doorknob. He stalled for a few seconds, hesitant, before finally mustering the strength to carefully and quietly twist the knob. The door cracked open an inch or two, allowing Castiel and Eremiel to slip inside and silently shut it behind them again with a minuscule click.

Metatron's office was small and vaguely homey. An inviting red oriental rug covered nearly every inch of the room, which was surrounded by dark wooden shelves loaded with book after book. A large desk sat at the far side of the room, cluttered with paperwork, books, pens, and a typewriter. A fire crackled in the hearth, even though Metatron was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is he?" Castiel asked, finally breaking the silence.

"What, you expected him to be here?" Eremiel inquired. "I'm surprised at you, brother. You think that I would set a time to perform this mission when Metatron was working on his writing? That is unbelievable. I must inform you that I haven't such imbecility."

"I'm sorry," Cass replied. "I wasn't thinking. Thank you for being so careful, Eremiel. I don't know if any other angel would help me as you have." He admitted. "I owe you so much."

"We don't have to worry about that now," Eremiel suggested. "Let's just find what you're looking for."

Castiel nodded in agreement and headed straight for Metatron's desk. "Search the shelves," He instructed Eremiel. "The list could be hidden anywhere."

"Will it be labeled?" Eremiel inquired, obeying Castiel's command by heading to the nearest bookshelf. He glanced at the trench-coated angel, who shook his head, his expression clearly saying that he hadn't the faintest clue. Eremiel sighed wearily but said nothing in response, simply grasping hold of the first book's spine.

"Well, then." He said, keeping his eyes fixated on the book. "We'd best get a move on."

* * *

"I found it."

Castiel's voice was almost awed...he had had no idea it would be this simple. It hadn't even been fifteen minutes yet. Clearly when Metatron had raided Heaven's protective storage, he hadn't known what these ingredients were for. The short, yellowing scroll wasn't labeled, as Eremiel had been hoping, but the minute Castiel read the first few words, he knew that he had found it.

"Are you sure?" Eremiel inquired, stepping away from the bookshelf to join the other angel.

Castiel couldn't stop a revealed smile from forming on his face. "Positive. The first line is the dead giveaway. See here?" He pointed to the script on the scroll. " _'Bones of the Nephilim.'_ What other disease involves a Nephilim?"

Eremiel shook his head, scanning the remainder of the list. His eyes lingered on the last line, a film of shock flooding his gaze. "Castiel." He said slowly. He had no need to explain any further expect gesture microscopically with his head.

Castiel's eyes followed Eremiel's, eventually landing on the dreaded words…

 _Grace of the Nephilim's father._

His gaze locked with Eremiel's, whose expression appeared frightened and innocent in his child form. "You can't possibly be considering doing this, Castiel." The angel whispered.

"Even if I was," Castiel said, defeated. "Her father is most certainly dead from the fall."

Eremiel's eyes sparked. "The fall that _you_ caused. So even if you aren't debating the act of stealing an angel's Grace, you _still_ killed him. You're a murderer, Castiel. There's no doubt about it."

"Don't say that, Eremiel." Castiel backpedaled rapidly. "It was...it was Meta—"

"If you even _mention_ Metatron's name..." Eremiel cut him off, seething. "You're a failure as an angel, Castiel. You don't deserve to walk in Heaven's sacred halls. You deserve to live in the filth and despair of the human world."

Even though Eremiel's claims didn't necessarily affect Castiel in the way he had intended, his tone still did. Cass looked away, back to the handwriting on the scroll. No matter what, he had to figure this out. Dean having this disease wasn't something he could simply brush off. "I have to go." He said quietly, turning towards the door and preparing to leave both Heaven and Eremiel's hateful words behind.

But the other angel stopped him, stepping between Castiel and the path to the exit. "You'll have to go through me." Cass froze, eyeing the seven-year-old boy in front of him with desperation. Had Eremiel been planning this all along? Plotting against him and taking on this vessel intentionally? Almost every angel he knew that he had a soft spot for humans after he had been instructed to recruit Dean Winchester.

From that time, he'd begun to care. First for Dean, and then Sam, and then Bobby Singer, the old hunter who'd died a few years back. Then eventually for all humanity. Some would describe it as a disease...but he considered it a... _blessing._

"Brother, I—"

"I'm not your brother." Eremiel cut him off. "I can see it in your eyes, Castiel. You _will_ steal this poor angel's Grace if you discover he is alive."

"It would be to save millions of people." Castiel protested. "Can't you see that?" Even more anger flared in Eremiel's eyes and Castiel unconsciously took a step back, still clutching the list of ingredients for dear life.

"I. Don't. _Care."_ The other angel snarled. "I stand by my words. You go through me before you leave."

Castiel grimaced. This was a choice that he normally would consider simple. But now, standing in the face of the dilemma...he found it much more difficult. It was the Winchesters or one angel. All three were brothers to him.

But he had to choose.

Closing his eyes, Castiel reached inside his trench coat and revealed his angel blade. The anger in Eremiel's gaze was replaced by fear, which caused even more guilt to build in Castiel's body. "I am sorry, brother. But I have to do this."

Before he even had a chance to react, Castiel plunged the angel blade into Eremiel's chest. He saw the light fade from his former friend's eyes.

"I'm sorry." He repeated before slowly pulling the knife from Eremiel's now slack and motionless vessel's body. He had not only killed an angel for Sam and Dean…

He had killed a child.

* * *

Sam blinked rapidly, struggling hard to keep his eyes open. If he fell asleep _inside_ a hospital and ended up being trapped inside bad memory after bad memory...that wouldn't be good. He'd just end up comatose in the empty bed next to Dean, confusing the doctors immensely.

He forced himself to sit straighter in the chair where he sat next to Dean's bed. Sam had already spent one night in this hellhole, and he was still having trouble completely looking at his brother's pallid, motionless form. To the world, he was just...comatose. In a deep sleep, sadly unable to awaken.

But as Sam listened to the steady breaths of the older Winchester, louder than normal due to the breathing tube, he knew. In reality, Dean's breaths were controlled and even. But inside...they were rapid. Each memory was probably bringing him closer and closer to hyperventilation.

When Sam finally mustered the courage to focus on his brother's face again, he saw a single tear slip from Dean's right closed eyelid. He was still completely comatose, but Sam didn't care. He rested a hand on the older Winchester's shoulder comfortingly.

"It'll be okay, Dean. Just hold on. Cass is gonna figure this out. We're _both_ gonna figure it out. I promise."

Dean didn't react to his words, as he expected. Sam closed his eyes, wishing he could just hear his brother's voice again. He sat back in his chair and linked his fingers together. Drowsiness was working its way into his system, stronger with every second. Lightheadedness consumed him, and he grimaced, trying to eliminate the intoxicating dizziness.

He had to go.

He didn't want to, but if anything happened in this hospital...Cass wouldn't know where to find either of them. Sam struggled to his feet, casting one last look down at Dean. He wanted to say something— _anything_ —just in case his brother could hear him, but his mind was blanking. He exhaled deeply through his nose before muttering a quick; _'I'll be back later, man',_ before striding out the door.

The minute Sam arrived back at the bunker, he collapsed into a chair. He was almost shaking with the weight of the slew of different emotions rolling through him...exhaustion, devastation, worry, shock.

But he had only one task to fulfill that was easy enough.

And that was to not fall asleep.

* * *

 _Lisa was so pale. It was hard to believe that earlier this year, she'd been glowing, smiling...beautiful. Dean's only light in his otherwise dark world. Now she was dying, only hours left to live._

 _Dean could scarcely look at Ben, who sat on the opposite side of her bed. Lisa was his_ mother, _and it was Dean's fault now that she was lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Ben wasn't a kid anymore. To the outside world, he was. But inside...after all he'd been through...he was wise beyond his years._

 _For a while, he and Ben sat in silence, listening to Lisa's steady inhalations and exhalations. But something felt off about the sound of her breaths. They seemed...too close. It was almost as if it were Dean breathing himself. But that was impossible. He wasn't the one hooked up to the breathing tube. Still, he couldn't shake that bizarre feeling. Another oddity he noted was that he and Lisa were breathing in unison._

 _Normally, he would've pondered further, but he couldn't think straight due to the situation. Anyway, he was probably being paranoid. He kept suddenly envisioning himself in her place, unconscious and dying. It felt almost real, but of course, it was simply regret. Just himself wishing that it had happened to him and not her._

 _Dean mustered the courage to lift his head and look at the boy who he still remembered as the eight-year-old kid who flirted with every girl he saw and wouldn't ask an adult for help because it was_ 'bitchy'.

 _"Ben, I'm sorry." Dean said quietly. Ben gave him a dark look before climbing to his feet and leaving the room without a word. "Ben—" Dean called out to him, wishing he could say something to console him. But he was already gone._

 _When Dean turned back, thinking he was now alone, he found Castiel standing on the opposite side of the bed, staring down at Lisa's unconscious form. Dean scowled. The only thing he could think about whenever he saw the angel now was his betrayal. Castiel had willingly gone behind the Winchesters' backs to work with Crowley, the friggin' King of Hell. "What do_ you _want?" He growled._

 _"Dean, listen..." Castiel began._

 _"What do you want me to say?" Dean demanded. "She'll be dead by midnight."_

 _"I'm sorry." The angel said slowly._

 _"I don't care," Dean replied bitterly. It's too little, too late."_

 _"Okay." Castiel looked slightly disappointed, but continued nonetheless. "Well, regardless, I didn't come for you."_

 _Dean creased his brow. "Meaning?"_

 _Castiel didn't respond. Instead, he strode up to Lisa's motionless form and rested his hand on her forehead. There was a beat, and Dean felt something shift in the room. Cass pulled back. "She's fine now." Relief flooded through him. "She'll wake soon. Dean, I said I'm sorry and I meant it."_

 _Dean hesitated, grateful for Castiel's help but still unable to shake off his disloyalty. "Thank you." He said. "I wish this changed anything." And he truly did. Like Dean had said to the angel not so long ago...he was like a brother to him. But when someone you were close to betrayed you...that was something you couldn't simply brush off._

 _"I know." Castiel responded meaningfully. "So do I." He huffed out a breath. "All else aside, I just wanted to fix what I could." The angel began to walk towards the door to leave._

 _A fleeting thought entered Dean's mind, painful to consider, but the words left his mouth before he had a chance to think it over. "There's one more thing you can do for me."_

 _He then said to Castiel the words he never thought he'd say, and leaned down to say his last goodbye to the woman he loved. He wasn't one for meaningful words or lingering farewells, as much as he wished he was. "Goodbye, Lisa." He murmured softly, giving her the whisper of a kiss on her forehead. Dean lightly stroked her cheek with his index finger before straightening and looking at Castiel with distress in his eyes. "Okay."_

 _Dean turned away._

 _He returned a little while later though, after the deed was done, dissatisfied with his original goodbye, and also wanting to make amends with Ben. It would be painful, but he would never see them again, and he wanted his farewell to be worth it._

 _As he approached her ward, he heard conversation from inside. Castiel hadn't been lying...Lisa was truly okay._

 _"Are you okay?" Lisa's voice was laced with a hint of panic, and Dean concluded that Ben had told her about their so-called_ 'car accident' _. Bittersweet warmth filtered through him at her words. It was just like Lisa to be concerned for her son's welfare before her own, even though she was the one lying in the hospital bed._

 _"Y-yeah," Ben responded quickly. "I'm—I'm fine. You hit your head pretty bad, but you're okay now."_

 _Lisa didn't reply, and Dean took that as his chance to intrude. He rapped gently on the doorframe, and they both turned their heads to look at him. "Hi," Dean's voice was weak._

 _There was a long pause where they simply stared at him. Lisa raised her eyebrows, and the blank look on her face was enough to make Dean hurt like hell. "Who're you?" Ben asked finally, breaking the silence._

 _"I...I'm Dean." He answered, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "Uh, the guy who hit you." He couldn't help it, but he found himself speaking metaphorically. Lisa and Ben would take his words literally, but he would know the truth._

 _"Oh." Lisa's voice was small, her tone wavering between about ten different emotions, almost as if she were unsure how to react to his statement._

 _"I just, uh...I lost control for a minute." He could feel his own emotions beginning to spike up. Dean pushed away any unshed tears welling in his eyes and continued as Ben and Lisa simply watched him silently. "And I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."_

Sorry for coming back into your life, sorry for everything I've put you through...

 _"I'm real happy you two are both okay. And, uh...I'm just—I'm glad your life can get back to normal now." And it would. Dean believed his finishing words, knowing that he was doing this for their safety._

 _Lisa smiled, causing both love and sadness to filter through him. "We're okay." She told him. "So...so that's what's important, right?"_

 _"Yeah." Dean replied. "Anyway, uh...I'll leave you two alone." There was another moment of silence, his unwillingness to leave them overwhelming. He looked to Ben. "You take care of your mom." They would find his last statement to them strange, but it was the closest he could get to saying_ 'I love you'.

 _As he turned away, the last thing he saw was Lisa's small smile at his words. He paused outside her ward, gripping the wall while fighting back tears. He blinked a few times, struggling to get ahold of himself._

 _And then he walked away from the life he had once found so promising._

* * *

Sam bit back a yawn as he headed down the bunker's hallway aimlessly. As he had left the hospital, Dean's nurse had told him that they would be sure to call if anything changed with his brother. Sam had simply nodded and continued on his way.

The nurse's words had spiked something in him. Because he _knew_ that nothing would change, and there was nothing he could do about it until Cass got back. Dean's doctors and nurses didn't know that there was ultimately nothing they could do for him, either.

Dean was doomed if Cass didn't show up soon. Sam gritted his teeth and leaned heavily on the wall as the realization sunk in. Or maybe it was the fact that he was beginning to feel unbearably nauseous and lightheaded.

Was this how Dean had felt before he passed out for good? Sam groaned and coughed wetly into the crook of his arm. Thinking about Dean's previous experience wasn't helping him power through his own.

He wouldn't be sick if it weren't for that damned demon. How many of those hell-spawn existed, anyway? They were swarming the place. Sam felt a snicker inside of him and he scowled. He reached the door to Dean's room and paused. He had no idea why he was tempted to go inside, but he didn't even think about it as he shoved the door open.

He then almost jumped a foot in the air as he found himself face-to-face with Castiel, who stood rigidly in the doorway, an ancient-looking, yellowing scroll clutched in his hand.

"Sam." Castiel greeted him, standing right in the doorframe. "Where's Dean?"

The younger Winchester caught his breath. "Cass." He huffed. "You need to stop doing that." He pushed past the angel and sat down on the foot of his brother's bed. "I brought Dean to the hospital, because—"

Cass interrupted him before he could explain everything that had happened since he'd been gone.

"Oh. Well, that's fine. Here." He thrust the scroll into his hands. "These are the ingredients for the cure. You can look it over, see if you can salvage the simple components."

"Sure, but, Cass—"

"I don't have time to talk, Sam, I'm sorry. If you want to help your brother, we can't stop even for a minute of conversation. I have to go. I'm still not sure if I'll be able to find every ingredient." Castiel's words sped out in a rush.

"But, I—" Sam started to say.

"Goodbye, Sam." The angel disappeared before he could even tell him his situation.

Sam sat frozen in the moments following Cass's departure. He was now completely unsure of his next course of action. _Find the ingredients._ A voice reminded him in his mind, which was becoming more and more jumbled by the second.

He coughed again, struggling to stand. Once he was finally on his feet, a wave of dizziness rushed through him. Sam stumbled backwards and collapsed back onto the bed. The memory foam gave beneath him, and the last thought that crossed his mind was that Dean's mattress was amazingly comfortable.

* * *

The demon pushed into control again, relieved. He sat up and stretched out the hunter's limbs. Ever since Sam had poured salt down his throat, his confidence had been gradually waning.

The younger Winchester taking control like that...it made him realize now that Sam was a stronger host than any he'd ever had. But he was going to make sure that Castiel didn't succeed in finding the vital ingredients for the cure.

The demon bent down and retrieved the scroll that had fallen to the ground. Scanning the page, he noted the ingredients he would have to prevent Castiel from finding. If the essentials were not collected, then there would be no way for Dean to be cured.

He was going to best these assholes if it was the last thing he did.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

Crowley huffed out a sharp breath, collapsing back onto the plush pillows of the bed, pleasure radiating through his system as Lola continued to run her hands over him, her body pressed up almost uncomfortably close to him.

"I hope you are appeased... _my King."_ Lola commented in a sultry tone, leaving a trail of light kisses along the nape of his neck.

Crowley shuddered with satisfaction, her touch sending shivers through his body. "Oh, very much, pet..." He responded, panting heavily as he attempted to catch his breath. Crowley struggled into a sitting position, trying to shake Lola off of him to no avail. She simply followed his movements and sat up as well. He didn't mind, he savored her attention.

But right now, he needed... _it._ The sweet...warm... _tantalizing_ sensation of the human blood entering his body.

It made him a junkie, but he didn't care. From the minute Sam Winchester had pressed down on the plunger of that syringe full of his very first dose of what he affectionately referred to as his _'addiction',_ he was hooked. For months, he tried to suppress it. To push away that memory at the very back of his mind, which continuously enticed him. But it eventually took over...

Obviously.

"Lola, pet..." Crowley said, looking over his shoulder at her. She was on her knees, rubbing his back with a tad too much passion. _"Mi adiccion llama._ As in... _'my addiction calls'._ Do you mind?"

Lola smirked, playing along. _"Por supuesto queno,_ sire." She said smoothly, sliding off the mattress and climbing to her feet in one fluid movement. "As in... _'of course not'."_ She strode to the closet and pulled the doors open, as she had done so many times before.

"We running low on loot?" Crowley inquired.

"Nope," Lola responded, turning back to him with a shot filled with their prisoner's blood. "Just restocked the pantry. This was a feisty one, you know. Tried to bite me." She placed the syringe in his outstretched hand and watched with a condescending expression on her face as he once more pushed down on the plunger.

The blood flowed into his veins, seemingly meant to be there, and Crowley shivered with delight as he gradually sent it into his bloodstream. It rendered him weak, and he slowly laid back on the pillows again.

He was about to say something, but was interrupted by the shrill ringing of his cell phone, the fifth time that day. Both him and Lola were silent, listening to the sound. After the call was sent to voicemail once again, Crowley looked back to Lola. "Love, I'm feeling unnaturally famished. Would you mind picking up some refreshments?"

"Gladly, sir," She drawled, slipping into a too-formal black dress and fur coat. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

The minute she had grabbed her purse and the door clicked shut behind her, Crowley reached for his phone. Checking through his missed calls, he realized that the majority were from Dean... _weeks_ ago. Crowley knew why, obviously. The older Winchester was probably comatose at the moment. Poor chap.

But his latest call was from Sam. He frowned. There were two reasons for the hunter to be calling him. One, Castiel snitched on him, and Sam was calling to not only rebuke him, but to also demand the cure that Crowley couldn't give him. Or, two, Sam was suspicious that he was the one pulling the strings behind Dean's disease. And he was.

Or it was the demon, his trusty adviser. Which was more likely as Crowley thought about it. They hadn't spoken in a while, and he...she...would be curious of his whereabouts and what was keeping him from communicating with her...him. Whatever. For now, it was a him.

So Crowley called the demon back. Although he couldn't very well say that he'd taken to shooting up human blood, it was worth the call just to see how both Winchesters were faring. So he dialed the number, hoping it wouldn't be Sam who answered. That'd be an awkward conversation.

The demon picked up on the first ring. "Your Majesty."

"Hello, darling." Crowley said, trying to keep the weak tremor out of his voice.

"Where. _The hell._ Have you been?" The demon growled. Crowley could tell that he was past the point of maintaining his respectful persona. "I've been trying to reach you _all day."_

"I _realize_ that, you imbecile." Crowley snapped. The demon on the other end of the line fell into a nervous silence. "You may be too _stupid_ to understand this, but I'm the bloody King of Hell. I have duties of my own, and I can't simply abandon them because one of my _many—"_ He emphasized that word intentionally. "—assistants is in need of my help."

"I'm sorry, sir," The demon replied, sounding legitimately apologetic. "I'm simply in a...jam, of sorts."

Crowley raised his eyebrows at the demon's words, slightly interested. "Hmm." Crowley mused. "I'm listening." If something had gone wrong with his plan...well, how would he create the perfect Hell without Dean Winchester?

"Castiel has obtained the list of ingredients." The demon got right to the point. "But the good news is, he left it with Sam."

"Well, then how are you in a pickle, love?" Crowley inquired. There was no response. Clearly, the demon was confused by his King's answer to his news. "All you need to do is get to the ingredients before Castiel. I distinctly remember instructing you to do so before."

"You did." The demon admitted. "I figured that would still be your course of action, since there is nothing more we can do at the moment. But..." He trailed off, and there was a pause between them.

" _'But'._..?" Crowley said finally, trying to egg him on. "Care to elaborate, pet?"

"Sam's sick," The demon replied quickly, sounding unnaturally nervous. "As in... _'Mortem per somniatis'_ sick."

Crowley closed his eyes, feeling the intense need to punch something, preferably the demon...maybe _inside_ Sam's meatsuit. No, that wouldn't be fair. The younger Winchester had done nothing to deserve that. So he resorted for the pillow he was lying on. "You _dolt._ Is it your doing?"

"Yes, sir..." The demon muttered under his breath, suddenly submissive. "I thought it was the best approach at the time...he was catching onto your scheme and I couldn't let him know."

Crowley clenched his fist and exhaled sharply, irritated. "You're lucky I don't terminate your ass." He seethed. "Just get everything under control. Goodbye." Crowley snapped before slamming his finger down on the button to end the call.

"Bollocks." He snarled.

* * *

Sam wasn't in control of his body. He was deeply unconscious, locked away in a dream as the disease unfolded, more rapidly than it had with Dean. But Sam knew what was going on. He _knew_ that he was asleep, he _knew_ what was happening. But he couldn't stop it. The dream commenced, and Sam immediately recognized his surroundings.

But confusion filled him as the memory flooded through him. This had once been his heaven…

Why was it now his hell?

* * *

 _Tonight was the night. He was gonna tell Dad._

 _Dean had known for a while now...Sam knew his brother didn't like it, but at least he knew that this was an offer Sam couldn't afford to pass up. He'd gotten a full ride. To_ Stanford, _of all schools. With an opportunity like this...he could go and live his own life. Get a good job, a girl he could call his own...not like one of Dean's many one night stands._

 _This was his chance to get out. Out of hunting, for good._

 _Sam would've liked to hold out against telling John Winchester about his plans for a longer amount of time, but today had been the last day of his semester as as senior in high school. There_ wasn't _anymore time._

 _It was now or never._

 _They were staying in a rundown old house, with one of those wrap-around porches that Sam had always admired. Maybe he would have one when he finally solidified a normal life for himself._

 _Both Dad and Dean were home when Sam walked up the steps of the porch. He could see his brother sitting on the crappy couch by the window. Dean was the worst part of Sam making this decision...he was his brother, and Sam had never truly been separated from him. But he was willing to give Dean up. At least for a little while._

 _Dean understood. So it was only Dad standing his way._

 _Sam twisted the knob and, after a deep breath, cracked the door open and stepped across the threshold. The other two men in the house looked up as he entered, Dean's expression tense and John's dark._

 _"You're late, Sam," Dad said, emotionless, without a word of greeting. "It's almost dark. The hell have you been?" Sam knew that tone. His father was on the edge, and that fact alone was almost making him rethink his decision to tell him tonight._

 _He shook it off and replied smoothly. "It was the last day of school today, Dad."_

 _"Yeah, and?" John grunted._

 _"And...I went out with a couple friends. Just to celebrate."_

 _Dad sighed. "Well, I suppose there is reason to celebrate," He remarked, the threatening tone slipping out of his voice momentarily. "You're finally away from that damned schedule." He took a sip of his half-empty beer. "But if you think you can go out without even bothering to tell me, you're wrong."_

 _John was avoiding Sam's gaze, instead grabbing a pen and jotting something down in his journal. Probably writing an entry about their latest hunt. It was the first banshee they had ever encountered, and they would most likely need the information again for future reference._

 _"Sorry, Dad..." Sam grumbled, striding to the couch and plopping down beside his older brother. He saw Dean give him a pleading look out of the corner of his eye, a request for him to not say anything, to_ not leave. _But Sam ignored him. He_ had _to ignore him, as much as he didn't want to._

 _Dad was unnaturally quiet, something that happened to him when he was absorbed in his writing._

 _Sam closed his eyes briefly before exchanging a look with the older Winchester. Dean's face was solemn, but he seemed to have accepted the circumstances._

 _His older brother's lips turned upwards into a sad and reluctant, yet reassuring smile and Dean gave him a tiny nod. It was small, and only lasted for a second, but it was enough to boost Sam's confidence._

 _"Dad, I've got something to say to you." Sam said boldly, climbing to his feet._

 _"Mm-hmm." John hardly acknowledged his statement, engrossed in his journal. His father's pen was moving vigorously across the page, obviously rewriting their latest hunt down to every detail. "And what's that?"_

 _Sam was silent for a moment, observing Dad's disinterest in him with a disgruntled look on his face. He still hesitated, unsure of what his father's reaction to his words would be. He looked at Dean, who nodded at him again, a message for him to suck it up. Sam inhaled shakily before turning back to John. He didn't dawdle with unnecessary introductions to get to the point, he said only three short words._

 _"I'm done, Dad." His tone was hollow, emotionless...but nonetheless determined._

 _John's hand froze, the pen stopped writing and fell out of his fingers. The sound of the utensil dropping onto his journal was deafening compared to the suffocating silence now engulfing the room. Dad's eyes slowly raised to meet his youngest son's, emotions that Sam couldn't identify swimming in their depths._

 _"What did you say?" He asked, his voice unnaturally quiet._

 _Sam swallowed harshly. He knew where this was going, and he didn't want that. But he also wasn't going to backtrack to appease his father. This was his decision. It was_ his _future, not John's. "I'm done." Sam repeated. "As in, I'm not living like this anymore. I won't."_

 _Sam could see Dad's anger rising just by his posture, which was getting more tense by the second. He saw Dean fidget uncomfortably on the sofa, obviously itching to leave the room. Sam shot him a desperate look, a plea for him to stay, and his older brother relaxed against the cushions, clearly unwilling to obey._

 _John rose out of his chair slowly, as if contemplating what he could say in response. The dark look on his father's face was getting darker, making it impossible for Sam to decipher what he was thinking. That was the scariest part._

 _"You don't get to make demands." Dad's words sounded calm, but Sam knew better. John was on the edge, and this situation was about to turn into a full-out massacre. Maybe their worst yet._

 _"You're not in charge of me anymore, Dad," Sam reminded him. "I'm eighteen, legally an adult."_

 _"I don't care." John seethed, anger seeping into his tone. "You're still my son, and that means you_ live by my rules." _Dad stood rigidly, hardly moving a muscle. His eyes were focused on Sam unblinkingly. "And if you think—"_

 _"I got a full ride to Stanford." Sam blurted out as John's voice started to gradually raise. His father was rendered speechless, staring at him in disbelief. "And I'm_ going, _whether you like it or not."_

 _Another silence ensued, the only noise the sound of Sam's heavy breathing. Anger was slowly building in his gut, and he lashed out before he had a chance to stop himself._

 _"Dad, this_ life!" _He exclaimed. "I can't do it anymore. I'm not like you or Dean, being a hunter...it just isn't in my blood!" These were words that Sam had been yearning to say for years, ever since he started thinking for himself. It had always confused him, how Dean would follow Dad's orders without question, almost as if he_ wanted _to._

 _Sam had hoped that, after hearing this, John would be at least mildly sympathetic, yet he was anything but. He could see his father's fists clenched tightly, his arms tense at his sides._

 _"This life isn't a choice, Sam," John said finally, his voice grave. He sounded almost tired, like he had explained this one too many times. The fact that Dad wouldn't take him seriously was painful for Sam. "It's a duty...for your mother. You know that."_

 _"Dad, I never even_ knew _Mom!" Sam exploded, his chest heaving. He saw his brother close his eyes in distress but he ignored him. "You say I'm living this hell to avenge her death, but, if it weren't for pictures, I wouldn't even know what Mom looked like! This life is for you and Dean. You knew her, you loved her. I'm_ done, _Dad, whether you like it or not." John's expression was shocked, but Sam knew that surprise would soon turn to rage._

 _He stalked to the door and grabbed the knob, preparing to leave. But before he even had a chance to open the door, his father stormed over to him and locked his hand around his wrist, yanking him back._

 _"How dare you say that to me!" He was yelling now, all traces of composure gone. Sam had never seen John's face contorted in such anger. "We also do this for the greater good, to prevent any evil sons of bitches from killing innocent people. Doesn't that mean anything to you!?"_

 _"Losing me won't make any difference!" Sam retorted sharply, backing away towards the door again. "You and Dean are damn good hunters, you can do the job yourselves!"_

 _"You sound like a self-absorbed_ child, _Sam!" John roared at him._

 _"Don't you even_ care _about my life, Dad!?" Sam demanded, his chest heaving. The fact that his father wasn't giving a damn about what Sam wanted to do with his future was infuriating. "I got a_ full ride. _To_ Stanford!"

 _"I_ don't _care."_ _John repeated, enraged._ "College, _Sam, really!? What're you gonna do after school, huh? Become some big-headed doctor? Or lawyer? Have three kids and a dog, living an apple-pie life?" He paused for breath, but before Sam had a chance to respond, he continued. "Well, Sam, you should know—while you're...I don't know, lying about some stupid son of a bitch's crime in court, there are_ real _problems out in the world._ Real _evil that needs to be terminated!"_

 _"That's not me, Dad!" Sam bellowed. "I want to be_ normal!"

 _"Is everything about what you_ want _, Sam? Huh? Not some poor son of a bitch's_ life?" _Sam shot a desperate look at Dean, who sat on the couch with a brooding expression. He wished his brother would at least try to break it up._

 _When Dean did nothing, Sam huffed out a breath. Unwilling to listen to any more of his father's lectures, he turned away and once more wrapped his hand around the knob. Before he walked out, John said the one statement that would haunt Sam for many years._

 _"If you walk out that door, Sam, don't you_ ever _come back!"_

 _Sam faltered. The air was completely silent except for his labored breathing. He closed his eyes, twisted the doorknob..._

 _And without a glance backwards, walked out for what he thought was the last time._

* * *

Castiel strode swiftly through the glass sliding doors of the hospital, purpose in his stance. The simplest ingredient on his list was Dean's blood, and all he needed to do was fill one small vial. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his trench coat and absently fingered the syringe he'd brought to collect the hunter's blood.

He wandered up to the front desk, trying to appear as if he weren't in a hurry. It was difficult, since Dean was slipping even farther away with every second, but he managed. "Hi..." He greeted the young woman at the computer with a phony smile. He glanced at her name tag. "Mikayla. I was wondering...may I request one of your patient's' room numbers?"

"Of course," She responded, returning his smile while appearing slightly flushed. "Name, please?"

"Um..." Castiel's mind rushed. He didn't know which alias Sam had used. "Dean...Angus." It was in the spur of the moment, he was using the first name that came to mind from Sam and Dean's usual catalog of fake names. So when _'Mikayla'_ responded with recognition in her voice, he was rather surprised.

"Oh, _Dean,_ huh? I remember him coming through here. Poor fellow. I can't imagine what it would be like to be stabbed." Her voice was sympathetic. "Such a handsome guy, too." She blushed slightly after those words escaped her lips.

"Stabbed?" Castiel blurted out suddenly. Sam hadn't mentioned that. "Is it serious?"

Mikayla frowned. "If you know Mr. Angus, sir, shouldn't you be aware of his condition?" Her eyes now held a flicker of suspicion, and Cass could see her distrustfully twirling her pen beneath the desk.

Castiel quickly pulled together a reply. "I heard only that he was comatose." That much was true. How come Sam hadn't told him? If it'd been a mistake on his part for being in too much of a hurry, he was going to kill himself.

"As a result of the stabbing," Mikayla answered, as if it was obvious.

Cass bit his lip. "Right. I guess I was just informed incorrectly. What's his room number?" Hopefully he hadn't made a bad impression. If Mikayla didn't trust him, she might refuse to relay Dean's room information to him.

"Well, sir," She began, back to all-business. "He's currently in the ICU, division number 4. If you're not a family member, then you are not allowed in. I assume you're not related to Mr. Angus, as you seem to have a lack of knowledge towards his condition?"

"I...no," Castiel admitted sheepishly. "There's not a way you could let me in? I'm a good friend of his, and—"

"No can do, I'm sorry." Mikayla interrupted. "If his condition improves, he may be moved to a standard hospital room. Then you will be permitted to see him. For now, only family is allowed."

There was a pause, and Castiel gritted his teeth, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter. He finally nodded reluctantly. "Very well, I...understand." Mikayla appeared slightly apologetic. "Thank you." He walked away, struggling to think of a different plan of action. He preferred resorting to the normal ways of doing things, but he would have to break that just this once.

Checking to see that nobody was watching him, he hurried towards the nearest elevator and in seconds, he found himself walking through the doors of Division #4. The large room was filled with comatose and sedated patients, Castiel didn't see a single conscious person. He scanned each bed, searching for Dean. He caught sight of his friend in the third to last bed and hurried over to him.

He made sure that he was alone despite the unconscious patients, and swiftly prepared the syringe to extract a vial of Dean's blood. He slipped the needle into the hunter's arm pulled back the end. He watched the blood slowly fill the syringe and once it was full, he slid the needle out of Dean's arm and stuck it back into his pocket.

Cass lingered for only a few seconds, watching Dean with a crease between his eyebrows. He didn't understand why Crowley would do this to the older Winchester. Dean had done nothing to deserve this, Crowley should know that. If that idiotic demon wanted to _'create the perfect Hell',_ couldn't he have found a better way?

He tapped the syringe of blood in his pocket with one finger.

"I'll make this right."

* * *

Dean Angus's breathing was slow and steady, controlled by the breathing tube stuck down his throat. His heart rate was beginning to decrease, which was a very good sign.

Corinne Acker circled his bed, adjusting his covers exactly as she had done with the last six beds. She stepped back as she finished, sliding the hair tie out of her chestnut braid, which had been coming undone all day. She instead pulled her hair back into a ponytail and let out a deep sigh while checking the time on the clock on the wall.

7:25pm...it was getting late. Her shift was done at 7:30, so she hurriedly set to work on fixing the covers on the remainder of beds. She paused before leaving. There was something about Dean Angus...a feeling that she couldn't shake. A feeling that he was in much worse condition than that stab wound in his abdomen.

Corinne rolled her eyes. She was just a first year resident. What did she know? With the stab wound on her mind, she pulled back Dean's blanket and lifted the white T-shirt covering his abdomen. The injury was heavily protected, but the bandages were in need of a change. She grabbed hold of her kit and withdrew clean bandages.

Carefully, she pulled up the dirty ones and inspected his wound. Once she was sure that the stitches were secure and wouldn't rip if Dean took too deep of a breath, she patched it back up again and once more fixed his blankets.

It was so sad, what had happened to him. He was young, still had so much to live for. Corinne was younger than him, of course, by quite a few years, but he was still only thirty-five, as she'd seen on his medical report.

Her heart kind of swelled when she looked at him, but she did her best to push it away. She was a resident, he was a patient. Nothing more to it. Sure, he was attractive, but she knew well enough that you can't judge a person by that. Maybe while conscious, he was an asshole. Corinne didn't want to think that, but it was possible.

For now, she would simply treat him and make him as comfortable as she humanly could. And maybe, someday...she would see those eyes open.

"Corinne?" Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her friend, Liz. "The hell you doing? I've been waiting for you at the front doors for ten minutes." She cut off. "I'm driving you, 'member?"

"Of course," Corinne responded. "I just..." She glanced swiftly at Dean. "Got distracted."

Liz followed her gaze, and her lips turned upwards into a mischievous smirk. "New crush, huh? Well, they always say the nurse falls in love with the patient." She strode forwards and admired Dean's unconscious form. "Damn. He's _cute."_

"Oh, shut up, Liz," Corinne chided, attempting to look stern but couldn't help the grin from forming on her face. "I was just changing his bandages. Anyway, I'm not a nurse, I'm a resident. Just like you."

"Ah, admit it, Cori," Liz pushed her. "Tell me you think he's hot."

"Liz—"

 _"Say it."_

Corinne laughed. "Fine, he's hot, but that doesn't mean anything." Her tone was serious now. "He's hurt, Liz, why do you think he's in the ICU? I'm just trying to help him."

Liz nodded, finally dropping the subject. "I get it. Poor guy." She smiled at Corinne. "But it's okay to think he's cute." She winked at her and tapped Dean's nose flirtatiously.

Corinne shook her head. "You're insane, Liz, I swear."

Her friend made a face. "Life would be so _boring_ if I weren't!" She giggled and shouldered her purse. "You ready to go?"

Corinne dipped her head in acknowledgment. "Just give me a minute." Liz gave her a thumbs-up and ambled out the room, fumbling in her bag for her car keys. Once she was gone, Corinne turned back to Dean, straightening his blanket out of pure geniality. She tenderly touched his cheek.

"Sleep well, Dean."

* * *

"Take him off the tube," The doctor told the nurse after a quick checkup. "Mr. Angus seems to be doing exceptionally well. If he can breathe on his own, we might be able to move him to a standard room."

"Yes, Doctor," The nurse replied as he strode purposefully out of the ward. She headed to the young man's bedside, disconnected the breathing tube from the machine and very cautiously removed it from his mouth. For a minute, everything remained perfectly the same. The nurse placed the tube on the tray by the bed.

She was just pulling back the covers to check on his injury when his entire body convulsed. Rapid gasps escaped from the unconscious patient's mouth, and the heart monitor spiked considerably as he panicked.

The nurse, too, panicked, quickly pressing the red emergency button by the bed. She fumbled for the breathing tube, her hands trembling as she attempted to connect it to the machine. Help arrived in seconds, and they soon were able to put Dean back onto the machine. The nurse remained to check up on his condition afterwards, and when she lifted up his T-shirt, she found scarlet blood soaking the bandage.

The stitches had ripped from the convulsions and had opened the wound, making it even worse.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

Sam was still out cold, as far as the demon could tell. He was restless in his unconsciousness, but it seemed that the disease wasn't willing let go of its hold on the younger Winchester just yet. That was a good thing for him. He still had a large task ahead of him. The vial of blood from Dean...that wasn't an ingredient he would be able to prevent Castiel from collecting.

So, he moved onto the next component needed for the cure. The Nephilim's bones. It wasn't the simplest ingredient to obtain, but it was undeniable that it was more accessible than the Grace of the Nephilim's father. He didn't know his _name,_ let alone his whereabouts.

But the Nephilim, Charity...he knew exactly where the Winchesters had buried her. All he needed to do was destroy the body...or at least dispose of it somewhere where Castiel could never find it. He stood in Sam's body in the library of the Men of Letter's bunker, getting a clear picture in his mind of that burial plot outside of that abandoned warehouse in Durham, North Carolina.

He closed his eyes, that image embedded into his brain, and when he opened them again, he felt the cool wisp of air blowing through the younger Winchester's rather long, in his opinion, locks. His lids cracked open, and he was met with the sight of a dreary sky, blanketed with gloomy silver clouds that caused a light rain to sprinkle down on him.

At his feet was a rectangular section of the ground where the grass had clearly been uprooted and then pushed back in. Dean had thankfully left his shovel leaning on the edge of the warehouse. The demon grabbed hold of it, feeling the rough wooden handle meet his vessel's skin.

He set to work, unearthing the soil as swiftly as possible. If Castiel were in a hurry, it was possible that he could be right behind him. In a matter of minutes, the earth was upturned and sitting in a crumbling pile beside the grave. The demon stared down at the still-fresh body of the Nephilim, wondering how the angel would manage to take a bone from her cadaver when the skin was still intact.

The demon shook his head, deciding not to think about the logistics of something he wasn't even going to do. He leaped down into the grave, his feet connecting with the ground quietly.

He reached into his pocket for the lighter, preparing to set the corpse aflame. But just as he knelt down with his thumb at the ready, the whooshing of broken wings met his ears. His head snapped up, and he pulled up the hood of the black sweatshirt he'd thrown on before departing.

The sky was now completely pitch black, and the demon couldn't see a damn thing as he attempted to hoist his vessel's massive body over the edge of the grave. He succeeded, but the minute he stood, he found himself stumbling over the shovel he'd previously used to unearth the Nephilim's body.

"Who's there?" He immediately recognized the angel Castiel's voice. Teeth gritted, the demon began to slink back into the shadows, but Castiel caught sight of him before he had a chance to depart. "Hey!" Castiel broke into a run and then skidded to a halt when he reached the open grave, scanning the area in confusion.

The figure was gone.

* * *

"Damn it!"

The demon was beyond enraged. If that angel Castiel hadn't showed up when he had...he would have destroyed that Nephilim's body and Dean would be doomed to never awaken from that coma right now.

But instead Castiel _...fallen angel...hero..._ blah, blah, blah...was now two-thirds of the way closer to making this cure for Dean. It pissed the demon off, knowing that he was failing in his job. The job that had been specifically given to him by the King of Hell himself.

He stood in the bunker's library, clutching the edge of one of the wooden tables so tightly that his vessel's knuckles turned white. Speaking of the younger Winchester...he could feel him stirring inside, probably due to the intense rage that wasn't his flowing through his veins.

 _Just a second, bucko._ The demon thought sourly. _Give the grown-up a minute to figure out what to do._

That was the question, wasn't it? What exactly _could_ he do? Castiel was succeeding greatly, and the demon was pretty damn sure that he had more information about the Nephilm's father than he did. Hell, he didn't even know the angel's _name,_ let alone his location.

That's when it hit him. Sam and Dean had met the Nephilim, _interrogated_ her. He hadn't really tuned into reality until she was dead. Was it possible that she had let the name of her father slip out? The demon wasn't sure if she'd have reason to. It was a stretch, but it was his only option at the moment.

He closed his eyes and in seconds, he was surfing easily through Sam Winchester's memories. He found out very quickly that he didn't need to dig too deep. He'd been right. The Nephilim... _Charity,_ he realized soon enough...had revealed the name of her father.

 _Chamuel._

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Sometimes a name was all you needed.

* * *

Sam felt like he was waking out of a dream. A long, unbelievably vivid dream. In a way, he was. He remembered his father's face clearly, contorted with rage and betrayal and...underneath, loss. He hadn't thought about that fight in _years._ This disease was gradually worming its way into his mind, and Sam dreaded the next time he slipped into the sickness's hold.

When his eyes slowly opened, he was met with the familiar sight of the bunker library. He distinctly remembered falling asleep while in Dean's room. That could only mean the demon was using his body while he was unconscious.

A cold chill filtered through him as that thought crossed his mind. He didn't know what to do...he'd tried everything in his power to expel that black-eyed son of a bitch, but each attempt proved to be worthless. Somehow the demon was managing to hold on inside him. It scared him, to be honest. It truly made him feel like he was just a puppet in his little scheme.

Sam closed his eyes, thinking over the situation and wishing there were something he could do help himself and Dean. When he, of course, came up with nothing, he glanced at his watch. Just past eight.

All he wanted to do was go check on Dean, but he felt like going to the hospital would just be a waste of time. What he really needed to do was focus on the demon, even if he couldn't think of any way to expel it.

As if reading his mind, his cell phone went off, its ringtone echoing through the bunker like a siren. Sam exhaled softly through his nose and stuck his hand inside his pocket to retrieve his phone. "Hello?" He answered, voice weak.

"Sam Angus?" The perky voice of a hospital receptionist greeted his ears and panic began to thread its way into his mind immediately. What reason would the hospital have to call him? Was Dean awake? Worse? _Dead?_ No, the receptionist sounded much too animated for that.

He realized he had paused for a while in his response. "Uh...yeah, that's me."

"Mr. Angus, but we regret to inform you that your brother, Dean Angus, has experienced a malfunction in his treatment. It is solely our mistake, and we will understand if you feel the need to sue." The receptionist rushed through the words, almost like she didn't want to say them, but Sam barely registered them.

"...what happened?" He managed.

"The order was given to take your brother off of the breathing tube. He appeared to be doing considerably well, but prior to removing the tube, he began to fight for breath, even while comatose." Sam bit his lip and waited with bated breath. "His stitches ripped, and his wound has unfortunately been reopened. He'll be fine, but we are of course taking the full blame for this and will understand if you decide to press charges."

Sam let out a shaky breath. "You're sure he'll be okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Angus, guaranteed." The receptionist responded.

"Then there's no need to press charges. Can I come see him?" Sam asked. He wouldn't have sued anyway, even if the situation called for it. He'd been entangled with the law enough already.

"Of course you may." She said, sounding relieved.

"Thank you." Sam answered quickly, disconnecting the call before she had a chance to say another word. He stuffed his phone in his pocket and scrambled to his feet, wanting to be at the hospital as soon as possible.

 _I'm gonna get rid of your sorry ass._ He inwardly told the demon. _But first I need to see my brother._

* * *

"Just admit it, Corinne," Liz jibed, holding back a giggle. "You took the night shift so you could ogle at your little friend in the ICU without being interrupted by anyone, huh?" Her friend crossed her arms and gave her a mock stern expression. "Now, come on, Cor. That's not very professional of you."

"Oh, shut up, Liz," Corinne groaned, taking a long sip of her coffee. "Sure, I think he's cute. But I'm not gonna base my work schedule around him." She paused, ignoring the disbelieving look on Liz's face. "I _am_ worried about what happened to him, though."

"What happened?" The other nurse's joking expression turned to one of concern.

"Well, his breathing tube was removed too early," Corinne explained. "While he was fighting for breath, his stitches were ripped and the wound was reopened." Liz covered her mouth and she waved her off. "Don't worry, he'll be fine. They patched him up easy. But like I said, I'm not taking the night shift because of him."

"I wouldn't blame you if you were," Her friend remarked. "But, Cori, listen...don't get too attached to this guy. I've heard stories about nurses and doctors getting close to certain patients...and it really doesn't end well."

Corinne opened her mouth to angrily retort that she wasn't _'attached'_ to him, but, seeing the caring expression on Liz's face, she let go of her breath and nodded slowly. "I won't, Liz, don't worry." Her words sounded sincere enough, but she couldn't help but not believe her own promise.

"Okay," Liz replied with a small smile on her face. Her friend grasped her hand briefly before shouldering her purse. "I'll see you later, Cori." She gave her a tiny wave before departing towards the elevator.

Corinne wandered towards Dean's division of the ICU without hardly thinking about what she was doing. In seconds, she was standing over his unconscious form. She noted nervously that he looked a lot paler than the last time she'd seen him earlier.

Shock shot through her as she saw a single tear slip from his closed eyelid. What the hell? Was that normal? She was prepared to call a doctor or nurse, but decided against it. Instead, she simply reached out and wiped the tear from his cheek.

"It's okay, Dean. Everything's gonna be okay."

* * *

Sam slowly entered Division #4 of the ICU, unwilling to see the further damage that had happened to his brother. If only Cass still had his healing mojo so that he could at least cure Dean's physical injury. But the angel didn't even know about what had happened. He didn't even know about the demon inside him.

It felt...weird. He was the only one in the world besides the demon himself that knew about his possession. It was almost like he didn't have anyone who would listen or care to his problems. Even though he knew that reasoning wasn't true, he couldn't help but believe it at the minute.

Sam spotted Dean near the end of the division, and he also caught sight of a young, pretty nurse, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties, circling his bed while fixing his blankets with the movements of a perfectionist. He froze and watched silently as she gently lifted his head to adjust his pillow. Once he was settled, the girl still lingered near him.

Confusion lurched through him when she reached out a hand to tenderly caress his face. He approached rapidly before she had a chance to touch him. Immediately, she jerked back and looked up at the sound of his footsteps. She stepped back breathlessly, as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't do.

"Hi..." Sam greeted her warily.

"Uh, hey," She huffed nervously, seeming to notice now that he was unable to tear his gaze away from Dean. She, also, turned back to his unconscious brother. "Are you related to...uh, Mr. Angus?" For some unknown reason, the nurse seemed unfamiliar with referring to him so formally. "Or..." She studied him carefully. "Um...boyfriend?" Her expression suggested that she would be rather put out if that were the case.

 _"No."_ Sam choked out before she could make any other wild assumptions. "Brother, nothing else." He chuckled nervously. She nodded, giggling softly along with him. "Um...I'm Sam. Sam Angus. What's your name?"

"Corinne Acker," She responded, sticking out her hand. He shook it awkwardly. "I'm a first year resident here. You heard what happened to him earlier this evening?" She inquired.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Is he okay? He didn't get any worse, did he?"

"Of course not," Corinne answered. "He's perfectly fine, considering. Unfortunately, he has yet to show signs of regaining consciousness." She seemed unnaturally apologetic, but Sam dipped his head in acknowledgement nonetheless. "But we'll be sure to let you know when he does. I take it you would appreciate a moment alone?"

"Yes, please," Sam replied politely. "Unless you're busy..." He gestured to his brother's blankets.

"I'm finished," Corinne said. "He's all yours." She turned back to Dean and briefly clutched his slack hand in her own. "I'll see you later, okay, Dean?" She smiled as if he could hear her before departing.

Sam watched her leave before looking back to the older Winchester. "Guess you've got an admirer. You'd probably like her, she's pretty hot. Definitely your type." He sighed, sitting down in the chair beside his bed. "I don't know how she does it," He murmured, mostly to himself. "She can talk to you like you can actually hear her...but you can't, and I know that for sure."

There was a long pause, and he sat with bated breath, almost as if he expected his brother to just open his eyes and sit up. But, of course, that didn't happen, and Sam exhaled deeply. "Dean, listen...even though I know you can't hear me...it still makes me feel better to just talk to you like you can." He swallowed harshly.

"Dean, I'm sick. Just like you." He rubbed a hand across his forehead. "God, I wish I wasn't. I want to focus on getting you back to normal." Another bout of silence. Every breath he took was deafening in the deadly quiet ward. "I dreamed about that fight Dad and I had before I left for Stanford. I bet you still remember it too, huh? Clear as day."

Sam leaned forward, watching his unconscious brother closely. "I don't know what you're dreaming about, Dean. Whether it's Hell, the Apocalypse, the Mark, whatever...and I know I've said this before, but you can fight through it. This is small fry compared to what else you've endured. Hell, you've _died_ who knows how many times?"

He held his breath once again and checked to make sure that no one else was around. He exhaled shakily. "Dean, there's a demon inside of me. Possessing my body and _using_ me whenever it feels the need. I think it was involved in the plot to make you catch on this disease. I've tried to exorcise it, cast it out by pouring salt down my throat, you name it. _Nothing works,_ and I can't figure out why."

Sam closed his mouth and bit his lip, wishing that, by some miracle, Dean would just...wake up. Perfectly fine. But that wasn't going to happen, and he knew it.

All he had to do was wait for Cass.

* * *

Before moving on to finding the Nephilim's bones, Castiel had been knee-deep in searching for Chamuel. His first step was to, of course, determine the angel's current status—dead or alive. He searched far and wide, looking for someone or something to find his answer for him. Because if Chamuel was dead...then there was no possible way that he would be able to make this cure for Dean.

He sat on an empty park bench, the area vacant except for the occasional jogger. It was a struggle to tune into angel radio, but it was the only option he had at the moment to find information on Chamuel.

Every word was muffled and the voices blended together, making it almost impossible for Castiel to understand what they were saying. If, by some miracle, he heard someone mention Chamuel's name, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to decipher exactly _what_ they were saying about him. But, still, he listened intently.

He was still sitting frozen on that very same bench when the daylight began to fade into night. Cass finally moved when defeat eventually filled him to the brim. He switched off any angel radio he could hear and rubbed a hand across his face.

Every direction he turned, it was always a dead end. Listening to angel radio, contacting old garrison members, searching for book after book in attempt to find Chamuel's summoning sigil...everything came out as useless.

But he wasn't going to give up. He figured he'd push this ingredient aside for the time being and focus on retrieving the bones of the Nephilim. The Winchesters must have buried her body near the warehouse they'd captured her...it wouldn't be too difficult to find her corpse.

He didn't want to leave his issue with Chamuel unfinished, but it was the only option he had at the moment.

* * *

Now, in present time, Castiel stood staring at the Nephilim's bone, which was clutched tightly in his hand. It, as Dean would probably say, had been a bitch to rip out, but he'd managed. He still was trying to figure out who it'd been standing over her body.

They'd made his job much easier by unearthing the grave, but if he'd showed up any later, he was quite sure that the corpse would've been destroyed and kept out of his reach. Who was trying to stop him from making this cure? And the biggest question, in his opinion, was...

Were they involved in Crowley's plan?

* * *

 _The door to Sammy's nursery opened, the light from the hallway flooding into the dark room. Dean clutched at his mother's neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her luscious golden locks._

 _"Come on, let's say goodnight to your brother." Mary told him, flipping on the lights. Dean wiggled to get out of his mother's arms, and she set him down on the floor. He scurried to the Sammy's crib and leaned far over the side. He placed a small peck on the baby's head._

 _"'Night, Sam," He said._

 _Dean felt his mother's hand resting on his back and she too, leaned over Sam. "Good night, love," She murmured, smiling down at her younger son. Mary brushed whatever hair the baby had away from his face and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead._

 _"Hey, Dean."_

 _He turned and was met with the sight of his father standing in the doorway. "Daddy!" Dean exclaimed, rushing to him._

 _"Hey, buddy," John chuckled, scooping his small body up in his arms. "So what do you think?" His dad asked, grinning. "You think Sammy's ready to toss around a football yet?"_

 _"No, Daddy," Dean shook his head, giggling._

 _"No?" John laughed._

 _Mary passed them and touched her hand to her husband's arm. "You got him?" She asked._

 _"I got him," John replied, hugging Dean closer to him. He watched his younger son fidgeting in the crib for a second. "Sweet dreams, Sam." He said before flipping off the lights and carrying Dean out of the room._

 _Once he was settled in his_ 'big-boy bed', _as John had referred to it when they bought it, his father gave him a firm pat on his chest. "See you tomorrow, champ." He said, smiling down at him._

 _Dean was just drifting off a few minutes later when Mary came into his room, gentle and loving, as Dean would always remember her. She glided to his bed and tucked in his blankets. "You comfy?" She asked him, sitting down beside him on the mattress. He nodded. "You want the song?" Another dip of his head._

 _She smiled and began to sing the words of the song,_ 'Hey, Jude', _which he had heard almost every night since he was baby. The familiar notes washed over him and he closed his eyes, taking it in. One verse of the song stood out to him as it never had before, as if it were a message straight to him..._

"And anytime you feel the pain,

Hey, Jude, refrain.

Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.

For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool

By making his world a little colder."

 _Mary fell silent after she finished the song. Dean was almost asleep when she leaned down and pressed her lips tenderly against the skin of his forehead. That was when she whispered the words that always sent Dean into blissful unconsciousness…_

 _"Good night, Dean. Angels are watching over."_

 _Little did he know that those were the last words he would ever hear his mother say to him._

* * *

 _It was the sound of Mary's screaming that pulled Dean back into reality, soon followed by the sound of John's yell of dismay. Dean, his mind already set like a hunter's at four years old, went to investigate._

 _"Daddy!" He exclaimed when he caught sight of John. He stared past his father in shock when he saw the flames licking at the ceiling of his brother's nursery. And...there was a body, too. A body that strangely resembled Mary. Dean's breath caught in his throat, his young mind easily registering that something was wrong, and he looked back to John._

 _Sammy was shoved into his arms, swaddled in blankets. "Take your brother outside as fast as you can, and_ don't look back! _Now, Dean, go!" John ordered him. Dean didn't have to be told twice. He turned tail with his baby brother clutched in his arms and ran._

 _The next thing he knew, he was standing outside staring up at the home he'd thought was safe. Sammy's nursery exploded, the fire escaping into the night sky. He could feel his father's hand clutching his forearm, but he barely noticed._

 _All his childlike brain could understand was that his mommy was gone._

* * *

Sam was asleep now. Not by the disease, but by exhaustion. It was late, nearly two in the morning. The demon had expected the younger Winchester to power through until morning, but obviously he'd been wrong. He now used Sam's body, unwilling to be trapped inside when it wasn't necessary.

He could see the nurse, Corinne, entering the ICU through double doors in his peripheral vision, and he swiftly closed his eyes, feigning sleep. She had spiked an interest in him that he couldn't explain.

The demon studied her silently with his eyelids cracked open slightly. She cast a quick look at him with a small smile on her face before turning back to Dean. She fixed his covers once again, which the demon noted she'd been doing a lot of lately. Could it possibly be her excuse to stay closer to him?

That question was easily answered when she quietly leaned down to give the older Winchester a whisper of a kiss on his forehead. She gently stroked his cheek, and the demon watched, his body frozen in thought.

Could she be the answer to any problems that might occur? If Castiel succeeded in making the cure and administered it to Dean with no problem...Corinne would be able to get close to the hunter while he was still in the hospital.

Dean would easily trust her, and then...if somehow he was forced out of Sam's body...he would be able to possess her, no question. A small smile played on his lips as the idea slipped into his mind...

Everyone needed a Plan B, after all.

* * *

Wow, guys, I'm so sorry I left you hanging! After school started, I completey forgot about this. I recently reread this book to see if it needed editing and realized I never finished posting!

I'll finish posting as soon as possible.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

Castiel wasn't really the _'glass is half-full'_ type of person, or...angel...whatever he was nowadays, but he was relieved that he had managed to obtain two of the three main ingredients that were needed in this cure. Sure, the last one could easily be called the most difficult to retrieve, but he was making good time. It'd been only two days since he'd obtained the Nephilim's bones. He hoped that he would soon have the cure completed.

He had finally found the name of Chamuel's closest friend, who had known him since they had joined the same garrison together. Amriel, whom Castiel had had connections with in the past. They'd been cordial with each other, and that gave him enough hope to find the courage to arrange a meeting with him.

Castiel had contacted him through angel radio. It had been difficult, but Amriel had thankfully agreed. He now stood rigidly in the dark forest where the other angel had instructed him to be. Castiel had a lingering feeling that this could be a trap, but he was willing to take chances.

"Brother."

The voice meeting his ears was warm with greeting, but there was a hint of cautiousness within its tone. Castiel turned, and his blue gaze locked with the intense sea green eyes of a towering African-American man. He loomed over him, possibly taller than even Sam. If this angel wanted to attack him, all he would have to do was make his move.

"Amriel?" Castiel inquired.

"That's me," The other angel responded. "I haven't gone by any other name since the beginning of time." He strode forward and clapped a massive hand onto Castiel's trench coat-clad shoulder. "And how are you, brother?"

Castiel was rather surprised at Amriel's hospitality. "I'm fine, considering the circumstances," He answered. "And you?"

"Grand, my friend, grand." Amriel adjusted the collar of his large black suit jacket and crossed his arms over his chest, studying Castiel intently. "I've seen you in this vessel before...are you meaning to tell me you've been using this very same host for almost six years?"

"Give or take." Castiel replied sheepishly, unable to erase the smile on his face. It'd been awhile since he'd been greeted like this. But a small part of him was still on alert, just waiting for the attack.

"So, down to business, I suppose," Amriel laced his fingers behind his back and began to pace back and forth across the forest floor. "You called me here to discuss Chamuel's whereabouts or how to summon him, correct?"

"Yes," Castiel answered. "I...need his help...in a rather dire situation." It felt wrong, lying to Chamuel's closest friend about why exactly he needed him, but he was desperate enough to do so without feeling too much guilt.

" _'Dire situation'?_ " Amriel pressed.

Castiel tried not to show his anxiety as he replied, as honestly as he could without revealing the truth. "A deadly disease has begun to spread, it has only plagued humanity once before. From what I've heard, Chamuel was involved in the vanquishing of the disease the first time. I need his help to overcome it once more."

Amriel nodded, clearly believing Castiel's claims. "Of course. He is usually involved in curing diseases and demolishing plagues." He stopped pacing and locked gazes with Castiel. "I have been in contact with him ever since the fall. But something seems to be troubling him...I haven't met with him in person, we've been communicating via cell phone." He shoved his hand in his pocket and revealed a glimmering black phone. "I must admit I'm not entirely skilled with it."

Castiel chuckled. "I doubt any of us are."

Amriel shoved his phone back into his pocket. "I think it would be easier if I simply gave you his summoning sigil, if that's all right by you. Chamuel doesn't take well to receiving calls from unknown numbers. He's very cautious, if you understand."

"Of course," Castiel responded, trying his best to not sound impatient. The sooner he came in contact with Chamuel, the better. Even if it meant stealing his Grace. Castiel's flesh still crawled whenever that thought crossed through his mind. It just felt... _wrong..._ as it should.

After an awkward minute of silence, Castiel had a slip of paper with an intricately-drawn sigil shoved into his hand. He studied it intently, examining the certain curves and four separate quadrants to place candles and Enochian symbols.

"Thank you." Castiel told him honestly. "Truly, it means a lot."

"You have no need to thank me." Amriel replied with an easy grin. "It's for the greater good. And that's what we do, correct? Some of us seem to have forgotten our purpose lately..."

"Don't I know it..." Cass murmured sadly. "Well, Amriel...I'm afraid I must be going." He wanted to say something...just _something_ to vaguely apologize for his plans for Chamuel, but his mind was a blank slate.

"Of course." Amriel responded. "Farewell, brother."

He was gone before Castiel had a chance to get one word out.

* * *

It was almost like there was an invisible force pushing against Sam's brain, urging him to sleep. And he was losing the strength he'd gathered to resist it. Weariness coated every corner of his mind, and he continuously had to pinch his arm to keep himself awake.

Apparently, his fatigue was noticeable. Corinne, who seemed to be hanging around Dean a little more than she should, had told him multiple times to get some rest. But, of course, Sam had refused. He wasn't going to surrender to the disease. He was beginning to feel feverish, which he could tell wasn't a good sign. Once Dean got real sick, that was when the memories started getting bad.

It'd been almost three days since he'd slept, and he'd scarcely left the hospital. Once, to buy a coffee that didn't taste like bitter hospital water, and then another time, when Corinne insisted he get some fresh air. All he'd ended up doing was driving around the parking lot for about fifteen minutes before coming back.

Dean was getting paler, and Sam was surprised that that was even humanly possible. He looked like one of the ghosts that they'd busted over the years, except in a living, breathing body. His heart rate was gradually going down, and Sam couldn't help but start to lose hope.

Now, as he sat in the chair beside Dean's bed, which had basically become his home in the last few days, his thoughts began to wander to a life without Dean. It'd happened numerous times since they'd begun to hunt together after he'd left college, but he always came back. This time...Sam wasn't sure what would happen if Dean didn't make it.

He exhaled sharply and scrubbed a hand across his face, straightening and stretching his spine. He didn't want to think about what may be. He had to live in the moment, and if Castiel succeeded in gathering the ingredients for the cure, that was all they needed to help his brother.

He just wished Castiel would keep him updated on his progress.

Sam pushed away any pessimistic thoughts and instead focused on his latest memory. His fight with Dad before leaving for Stanford...a no-brainer, obviously. But it wasn't just a bad memory. It'd been part of his heaven when he and Dean had gone upstairs.

After a few minutes of thought, Sam had a conclusion. It wasn't the fight that had been his heaven, it had more specifically been _leaving_ the life that he'd always loathed. His hell was the worst battle him and his father had ever had, and the fact that he had left his family. It should've been more obvious to him.

He sat back in his chair and glanced around the room. It was bizarre...when Dean had first been admitted here to the ICU, this place had seemed cold and foreboding. But now...it was almost familiar. Still cold, but not as much anymore. He caught sight of a glass of water perched on the bedside table and vaguely realized that a nurse must have brought it for him.

The problem was...he didn't remember receiving it.

He probably would have if he wasn't so tired. For what felt like the millionth time that day, Sam's eyelids drooped, threatening to close completely, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to keep them open.

"I keep telling you to go to sleep," A voice that had now become familiar in the past few days remarked. "You gonna do it sometime?"

Sam had been so out of it that he hadn't noticed Corinne approach Dean's bedside. She was now checking the numbers on his heart monitor, which meant absolutely nothing to Sam. She shot him an amused look, but he could see concern etched in the lines of her face.

"I'm fi—"

"And don't say you're fine," Corinne chided. "Because I haven't seen your eyes shut for more than a minute in three days. Look, Mr. Angus, I know we just met a couple of days ago, but it won't be long until I go mother-mode on your ass."

A smile was playing on her lips, and Sam returned it sheepishly. He had to admit, he _was_ losing the battle to sleep, and he supposed he would have to succumb to the need sooner or later, even if it meant entering another memory. "You're right," He murmured, looking to Dean anxiously. "But Dean—"

"Your brother will be just fine." Corinne replied. "I promise. And if he miraculously wakes up while you're asleep, I can guarantee that you'll be the first to know." Her words were humorous, but Sam caught a hint of melancholy in her tone. "Dean is in good hands, Mr. Angus, trust me."

After a pause, Sam responded. "Okay." He relented with a sigh.

But he didn't want to sleep with the demon still perfectly able to take advantage of him while he was out. So, he swiftly whipped up a solution as well as his groggy mind could manage. He grabbed hold of the glass of water and slipped out the rosary that he always kept near him just in case he needed it.

This time, he did.

Sam hid the cup behind the bed and secretly dropped the rosary into the water. It made virtually no sound as it plopped into the cool liquid. And then, under his breath, he whispered the Latin incantation needed to make the water holy. _"Exorcizo te, creatura aquae. In nomine dei patris omnipotintes."_

"What was that, Mr. Angus?" Corinne inquired, looking to him and raising her eyebrows.

"Nothing," Sam said quickly while downing as much water as he could. Inwardly, he _felt_ the demon writhe in agony and pass out cold. Relief rushed through him...now he could sleep with no worries.

"And you can call me Sam." He added before allowing his eyes to slip shut. He caught Corinne's answer before completely losing his grip on consciousness.

"Okay...Sam. _"_

* * *

Crowley closed his eyes, his entire body trembling as shivers coursed through his system, causing a cold sweat to form on his skin. Lola had gone out...again. It was the fifth time this week, and it was only Tuesday. Normal Crowley would have thought something fishy was up, but right now...he wasn't his normal self.

After all, he trusted Lola. Or more...he _wanted_ to trust Lola. So he said nothing whenever she returned after being gone for a suspicious amount of time.

Another shiver traveled through him and he crossed his arms tighter across his chest. Was this what it was like when humans contracted an illness? It'd been so long since he'd been mortal...now it just felt like he'd been a demon for his entire life.

So, now, as Crowley sat against the frame of the elaborate bed, practically destroyed by his and Lola's...activity, he aimlessly watched a rerun of _The Notebook_ on the flatscreen hotel television set. He was tuned into it enough to have some emotion rolling through him as old Ryan Gosling read the story of their life to his amnesiac wife, but he was rather distracted.

What could he do about Dean? The poor chap was dying, comatose in a hospital bed, while his brother slowly surrendered to _Mortem per somniatis_ as well, due to the idiotic actions of his so-called _'reliable'_ demon assistant.

Speaking of the demon...Crowley figured it was about time to check in with him. The sooner he gathered the ingredients to prevent Castiel from collecting them, the sooner he would be able to make the perfect Heaven with Dean Winchester. Maybe _that_ would cut off that bizarre human feeling of what Crowley realized was guilt.

He reached over and retrieved his cell phone from the nightstand, nearly knocking over the lamp with his clumsy movements. He scrolled through his contacts with a sweaty thumb and found the name _'Moose'_ almost immediately.

He pressed the call button and just before the first ring sounded, he hoped to the deepest depths of Hell that it wouldn't be the real Sam Winchester who answered. The buzz on the other end of the line met his ears, and he held his breath.

A few rings had sounded, and there was still no answer. Crowley exhaled through his nose, annoyed, and impatiently tapped a finger on the nightstand beside the bed he lounged on. "Come on, come on..." He muttered under his breath.

The last ring sounded, and the call went to voicemail. Crowley let out another huff of irritation and pulled the phone away from his ear. "There are _two_ of you who are eligible to answer...are _both_ of you too busy for my time? Disrespectful." He honestly didn't care that he was talking to himself like a madman.

But the demon must have just missed his call, so he once again selected Sam's name in his contacts and pressed his cell phone to his ear again, clenching his teeth together restlessly.

Someone had to answer...right?

* * *

Corinne was now two beds down from Dean, tending to a patient who had miraculously survived a bear mauling two weeks ago. He was in a precarious condition, hovering on the edge of falling into a coma.

She had been told to keep him under with a heavy sedative. If he regained consciousness, there was a possibility that he would collapse into the coma that they were doing their best to prevent if he became exposed to the pain of his injuries.

So as Corinne gradually slipped the sedative into his IV bag with the syringe attached the tube, she heard the distinct sound of a cell phone's ringtone. She cast a quick glance around, trying to locate the sound. Quickly, she focused back on her work and disconnected the syringe once the correct dosage of sedative had been administered to the mauling patient.

Just as the last ring was sounding, Corinne finally realized that it was coming from around Sam and Dean's vicinity. She moved in their direction when the ringing ceased and the ICU was just as silent as before except for the sound of breathing machines attached to a fair number of patients in this division.

Corinne stopped at Dean's bed and furrowed her brow, checking his heart rate out of habit. The minute her eyes strayed from the heart monitor and focused on Dean, the ringtone started up again, surely coming from Sam's pocket. He showed no sign of stirring, so she reached out and gently nudged his shoulder.

"Hey. Mr. Ang—Sam?" She corrected herself, remembering his last words to her before he fell asleep. It took him a minute to open his eyes, but when he did, he was instantly alert, grabbing her outstretched hand seemingly without realizing it.

"What? What?" He panted. "Is Dean okay?"

Corinne smiled slightly, pulling her hand back. "He's fine, Sam, don't worry. Just wanted to let you know your phone's ringing." The moment those words left her mouth, Sam seemed to suddenly register the sound of his ringtone.

"Oh. Uh, thanks." He dug inside his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. But before answering it, he looked to Corinne, seeming to deliver a silent request for her to give him some privacy.

She nodded at him respectfully and retrieved her syringe from the mauling patient's bedside before striding purposefully out of the division without a second glance back at Dean's brother.

* * *

The minute Corinne was out of sight, Sam slapped his cell phone to his ear. "H—hello?"

"You sound stressed, love," He was greeted by Crowley, _the King of Hell, one of his biggest enemies,_ on the other end of the line. "But you haven't called...so I assume everything is going smoothly?"

"Crowley?" Sam growled, keeping his voice low. "Why _the hell_ are you calling me?"

"Moose." The demon's tone had changed completely, a hint of anxiety showing in his voice. "A pleasure, as always. I...must have hit the wrong contact name on my list...this call was not meant for you." Even Sam could tell that Crowley was lying. "Apologies for the mix-up. Cheers, then."

Before the demon had a chance to end the call, Sam spoke up. "Cut the crap, Crowley. I'm not that stupid."

"I beg to differ," Crowley responded, his words meant to be insulting, but the strain in his voice prevented his tone from sounding as mocking, egotistical, and suave as it usually did.

"Who are you talking to?" Sam demanded. _"What's_ going smoothly?"

"Always with the interrogations, Moose," Crowley tutted. "It's not right to meddle in other people's business, mind you." When Sam offered no response, Crowley sighed dramatically. "As I said, the call was not meant for you."

"Yeah, I've gathered that." Sam snapped, annoyed.

A silence commenced, and Sam could feel the tension rising between them, even if they were on separate ends of a phone line. Confusion filled him to the brim. Who could Crowley _possibly_ be calling?

And then it clicked inside him. So obvious that he didn't know why he hadn't realized it immediately. _The demon._ Crowley was trying to get ahold of the demon possessing him.

"You." Sam muttered, his voice hushed. _"You're_ the one behind this, aren't you? You're the reason why Dean's sick and dying...you hired the demon to make sure of it!" His voice was raising as he spoke what he knew was the truth.

"Well, who else is clever enough to kill so subtly?" Crowley answered snidely.

 _"Why?"_ Sam asked the inevitable question, his voice desperate. "What has Dean done to you that requires this kind of payback? He's gonna _die,_ Crowley. Because of what you've done. Is that really what you want?"

"Believe it or not, Moose, that is what I want." Crowley remarked. "After all, that has been the end goal since I constructed this plan." He paused for a few moments. "And you want to know _why_ I'm doing this?" He stopped again and waited, when he was met with no response, he took Sam's silence as his cue to continue. "Dean Winchester, your brother, has exactly what I need to _create the perfect Hell._ He will assist me, don't you understand?"

"You _self-righteous ass."_ Sam snarled under his breath, lowering his voice as a nurse entered the ICU to make her rounds. "What makes you think you can take advantage of Dean like that?"

"Simply because I can," Crowley replied. "After all, this glorious country is the _land of the free."_

"Yeah, well, the government doesn't give you the right to _kill."_ Sam burst out. In his peripheral vision, he saw the nurse shoot him a shocked look from where she stood a few beds down from him, but he ignored her.

"So you're saying your Constitution is a lie?" Crowley inquired. "Pity...it sounded so promising. Well, I must go, I'm afraid. Ciao." The line went dead before Sam had a chance to say anything else.

He pulled the phone away from his ear slowly, staring at Dean with pressure growing in his chest. The nurse who'd entered had left, probably because of what she'd heard of his questionable conversation with Crowley. "It's Crowley, Dean." He told his brother, massaging his forehead. "Crowley's the one behind this. But don't worry, man...Cass is gonna fix this..." He trailed off, swallowing.

"For both you and me."

* * *

Sam stumbled to his feet and hurried swiftly out of the ICU, unsure of where exactly he was going, but he knew that he needed to either find Crowley and force him to help Dean and himself. And, if he couldn't, he would at least try to get ahold of Castiel and inform him of his situation.

This wasn't the first time Crowley had tried to sabotage them, and they had always bested him. Every single time. How was this any different? Sure, Sam didn't have Dean to back him up, and he was fading away fast as well...he could feel it inside of him. But he always had Cass. Whenever they were in trouble, the angel was always willing to step in and help.

Sam passed Corinne just as he was leaving, and her eyes followed him as he left, her confusion at his sudden departure clearly expressed on her face. He turned back to her as he registered the crease between her eyebrows. "Take care of my brother, okay?" She nodded slowly as he held her gaze, and he was gone in an instant.

Sam had absolutely no idea what he expected to do as he clumsily staggered down the bunker's staircase. He could try to summon Crowley, but what would that get him? More snide remarks with a side of infuriating sarcasm.

As he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, he decided to simply call Castiel. It was the easiest solution at this point...if the two of them put their minds together, they would be able to handle Crowley.

But as he reached inside his pocket to retrieve his cell phone, a wave of dizziness swept through him. His arm jerked out and slammed against the railing of the stairs in an attempt to steady himself.

Sam struggled to rationally decipher what was happening, but his brain was too fuzzy for him to think properly. After he had succeeded in pulling his phone from his pocket, it slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. Nausea washed over him and Sam groaned as he felt his body waver and begin to fall.

He was out before he even hit the ground.

* * *

 _Sam watched in confusion as the quick flash of fire hurtled through the air, aimed at Michael. A Molotov cocktail, he realized. It collided with his half-brother, Adam's, body, and he was engulfed in flames. When the fire died, he was gone._

 _Sam would've wanted to look to his brother, but Lucifer's gaze was focused solely on Castiel, who had thrown the bottle. "Castiel." The Devil said slowly. The sound of his own voice coming out of his mouth when he wasn't in control was bizarre to Sam. "Did you just Molotov my brother with holy fire?"_

 _Castiel took an uncertain step back. "Uh...no."_

 _"No one dicks with Michael but me." Lucifer growled, lifting his hand threateningly. Sam watched in confusion as Satan himself, using_ his _hand, snapped his fingers. In an instant, Castiel exploded in a rain of what looked disturbingly like blood. Sam's heart lurched in horror as he realized that he had lost his friend._

 _After a moment of stunned silence, Dean spoke, facing Lucifer warily. "Sammy, can you hear me?"_

 _Grief welled up inside of him. More than anything, Sam wanted to reply. To_ tell _his brother that he could hear him, loud and clear. But Lucifer would never grant him that luxury. Instead, he turned to Dean and responded. "You know...I tried to be nice. For Sammy's sake. But you...are such a pain..._ in my ass."

 _In a split second, with just a single hand motion, Lucifer threw Dean against the windshield of the Impala at full force, shattering the glass. Before Sam could even react to what had just happened, the sound of a gunshot rang in his ears. An unbelievably powerful force collided with his back and an almost sickening pain spread quickly from his back to the rest of his body._

 _Reality blurred for a time. How long, Sam wasn't sure. Maybe a few minutes. He felt another hit on his chest, just as painful as the first. It took him a while to realize that he'd been shot. For a minute, he couldn't understand who. Dean? No, he'd been in front of him, lying across the Impala's windshield. Cass...Cass was gone. That was hard to register._

 _And then it dawned on him. Bobby._

 _Sam was brought slowly back from oblivion by the sound of Dean gasping in pain. His vision cleared, and the sight he was met with was horrendous. He was watching his own hands beating his brother. Dean had fallen back against the car, and all Sam wanted to do was help him._

 _"Sammy?" Dean groaned. "Are you in there?"_

 _Sam's heart wrenched, and he wished to God...well, whoever was listening...that he would be able to respond to his brother. But Lucifer answered for him, much to his chagrin._

 _"Oh, he's in here, all right." He brought back his fist and nailed Dean straight in the face. "And he's gonna feel the snap of your bones." A second punch, and Sam's brother toppled to the ground. "Every single one." Lucifer grabbed Dean and hauled him to his feet. "We're gonna take our time."_

 _Sam was screaming from inside, watching his own hands beat his older brother's body into a bloody mess. Each time that the Devil struck Dean made Sam feel even more nauseous than before._

 _Lucifer looked down as Dean gripped Sam's jacket in a tight grasp. Sam stared at the older Winchester's bloody and swollen face desperately as his brother spoke. "Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here._ I'm here. _I'm not gonna leave you." Lucifer struck him twice more, hard. "I'm not gonna leave you." Dean protested, his voice spiked with pain._

 _Lucifer pulled his hands back for another hit just as a glare of sunlight glinted off the roof of the Impala, catching his gaze. Sam knew in that moment that he had to take control, to find the strength to fight back. His eyes searched for something,_ anything, _that would trigger the power inside him to take back his body._

 _But he didn't have a chance._

 _The world was fading, Dean's bloodied face becoming more and more blurry. Sam blinked, creasing his brow in confusion. What was happening? Was Lucifer doing this?_

 _"Sam!"_

 _A voice called his name from far away. Sam recognized it. But it wasn't Dean's or even Lucifer's._

 _"Open your eyes, Sam."_

 _Was that Cass? The realization rushed over Sam, and he struggled to obey his friend's command. Reality invaded his mind without his telling it to, and the minute his eyelids opened a crack, blinding light glared into his vision…_

 _And the dream escaped from his consciousness._

* * *

"Sam? Are you awake?"

The younger Winchester let out a small cough and opened his eyes wider. "Oh, thank God." Castiel sighed, sitting back on his feet and helping Sam into a sitting position. "You were on the floor when I arrived. I've been trying to wake you for a half an hour. What happened?"

Once he was upright, Sam took note of his surroundings. He was in the bunker, just at the bottom of the stairs. He looked to Castiel, who was, for once, lacking his trench coat. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he actually appeared...human.

"Guess I passed out." He responded, as if it wasn't already obvious. The angel gave him a stern look, and he sighed. "I suppose I should get you up to speed." Sam narrowed his eyes.

Castiel tilted his head, a befuddled expression forming on his face. "What's there to know?"

And that expression gradually became permanent as Sam revealed everything that had occurred during the angel's absence. There was a long silence where neither of them spoke when Sam finished.

Finally, Castiel spoke.

"You're telling me that _both_ you and Dean have this disease now?" He inquired, nervously sticking his hand inside his pocket and fingering something. "And you're also _possessed?_ You didn't think this was important enough to contact me?"

 _"Dean_ is my main priority." Sam retorted.

"And he's getting worse as we speak."

* * *

 _Everything hurt. His body was on fire, that was all that Dean could rationally understand. Lucifer's fist...no,_ Sam's _fist, was still held high in the air, poised for a second strike. Dean waited, panting, for the hit to come._

 _But it never did._

 _Sam's hand unclenched, and he let go of his brother. Dean collapsed to the ground against the Impala, nearly losing his grip on consciousness. But he didn't. He knew it was Sam that had let him go, Sam that had taken control of his body again. Sam's next words confirmed that knowledge._

 _"It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay. I've got him." Dean watched through blurred vision as Sam took the Horsemen's rings out of his pocket and tossed them on the ground._ "Bvtmon tabges babalon."

 _Immediately, the grass caved in and the wind around them was sucked into the large hole created in the ground. Sam met Dean's gaze, no fear showing his eyes. He gave his brother a nod and Dean couldn't find the strength to return it._

 _Sam took a deep breath._

 _"Sam! It's not gonna end this way! Step back!" Adam's voice broke through the air, and Dean's head snapped to him. A part of him wished it was actually Adam, but he knew it wasn't. Michael still possessed him._

 _"You're gonna have to make me!" Sam yelled back, unwavering._

 _"I have to fight my brother, Sam! Here and now! It's my destiny!" Michael protested, desperate._

 _Sam ignored him and looked at Dean once more. Then he closed his eyes, spread his arms, and began to fall back. Michael ran towards him, reaching out to stop him. But Sam grabbed Adam's jacket and pulled him down with him._

 _And then they were gone._

 _Dean kept his eyes focused on the spot where Sam had disappeared for a long while afterwards. Grief was eating and tearing away at his insides, threatening to haunt him for weeks, days, months…_

 _His brother was gone._


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Castiel completed the last curve of the sigil on the concrete and pulled back the chalk he held. He pushed himself off of his knees and rested his weight on the balls of his feet, examining his work. Something still stopped him from finishing the summoning. He had no rational idea how he was going to follow through with this.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then proceeded to place the candles in their correct places. It took him a second to realize that his hands were trembling as he set each down. He steadied himself, continuing to work.

And then it was time.

The sigil was drawn, the candles were lit, and the words of the Enochian summoning chant sat on the tip of his tongue. Castiel gripped the hilt of the angel blade hidden within his trench coat and exhaled sharply before speaking. _"Ol summon elasa Chamuel, zodamran apeta ol."_ He snapped his jaw shut once he was finished and waited, heart pounding.

Nothing. Castiel frowned, studying the sigil and thinking over the incantation. Had he made a mistake or pronounced something wrong? The smallest error could affect everything. The voice that sounded from behind him proved his suspicions wrong.

"Who are you? What do you want with me?"

Castiel slowly turned to face the owner of the small, cautious voice. The person his eyes were met with made him cringe with sympathy. Scrawny, starving, with large eyes that seemed to beg for help.

"Chamuel?" Castiel inquired, catching his breath. Was this the only vessel that he could manage to take over? The man nodded in acknowledgment without saying a word. "I need your help...please. My name is...is Castiel." He faltered before revealing his name.

Chamuel shifted his weight with interest, not anger, sparking in his eyes. "What do you need, brother?" He asked without a second thought.

Castiel raised his eyebrows, surprised. Was Chamuel not angered by his betrayal? Did he not even _consider_ it a betrayal?

That just made it even more difficult for Castiel to take his Grace, his entire _being._ Leaving him a shell of what he used to be. Mortal, alone, and stuck in the body of a poor, poverty-stricken man.

But he couldn't refuse to. Castiel knew that. In order to help Sam and Dean, this is what he had to do. "I need...your Grace."

Before Chamuel had a chance to react, Castiel's hand shot forwards and he slit the other angel's throat. He brought the glass vial close to the bleeding skin of the vessel's neck, and the glowing blue Grace came swirling out, almost what you would think the air would look like if it were visible.

Castiel screwed the top of the glass vial on and did what Metatron had done for him by healing Chamuel's slit throat. There was a long silence as Castiel stared at the effects of what he had done. But all he could see was the look on Chamuel's face. Betrayed, shocked, pained, heartbroken.

Castiel closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "I'm sorry, brother." He murmured. He then disappeared, leaving Chamuel alone and miserable, stripped of his Grace and left mortal with nowhere to go, just as Castiel had been not so long ago.

Funny how things work out.

* * *

Castiel grimaced as he finished recounting his own story to Sam, who was looking fainter by the second. "So you have everything?" The younger Winchester inquired, obviously trying to make himself seem better than he actually was.

There was a long pause as Castiel studied the younger Winchester, concern etched into his features. "Uh...yes." He replied finally, furrowing his brows and locking his eyes with Sam's glazed ones. "As do you?" He was met with a befuddled expression, so he elaborated. "Eleuthero root and African dream root? The remedy calls for that, remember?

"Right. Right!" Sam answered suddenly, realization flooding his gaze. "You gave me the list of ingredients. We have both, I checked. But, Cass...this demon inside me..."

"I know." Castiel responded. "So you attempted to exorcise it, correct?" Sam nodded, wiping his hand across his face wearily. "And it's somehow holding on inside you?" Another nod. Clearly Sam wasn't up for too much talking. Castiel's mind was racing, wondering what could possibly cause this.

That's when it hit him. "A binding lock." He said aloud.

Sam stared at him. "A binding lock?" He repeated slowly, obviously searching his own history for any past experiences where a demon used a binding lock. And then it was like someone had downloaded every single memory into his brain. "A binding lock!" He said again, this time with no confusion in his tone. "I can't believe I didn't see it before!"

"You've seen one before?" Castiel inquired. "It happened to someone?"

"It happened to _me."_ Sam replied quickly. "Long time ago...maybe seven years? I was possessed by...I was possessed by Meg." He bit his lip, waiting for Castiel's reaction to her name.

Castiel took a deep breath and nodded. "And you succeeded in burning it off? Was it Dean?"

"Bobby." Sam corrected, sounding impatient. "Cass, we need to find it if that's what is preventing the demon from leaving." The angel nodded in agreement and watched as Sam first rolled up his sleeves, searching.

"Really, Sam?" He asked, exasperated. "You think a demon would plant a binding lock on your body in your plain sight? _You're_ in control of your body for the most part, it's not like you wouldn't notice it there. We have to check in places that are unnoticeable to yourself and anyone else."

"Like?" Sam inquired, wary.

"Like this." Castiel strode purposefully over to the younger Winchester and yanked up his shirt to reveal the skin of his back. Which, lo and behold, contained a nasty burn mark placed neatly in the center of his back. "There you have it."

"What?" Sam twisted his neck, trying to see.

"I have to burn it off." Castiel told him slowly, tracing the mark with his index finger with a concentrated look on his face. "I don't know if I have the power, but we can always destroy it some other way if it doesn't work."

Sam nodded, gritting his teeth as Castiel placed his palm over the binding lock. There was first the sensation of warmth, and then extreme heat, finally followed by searing pain. Sam clenched his jaw, biting back a groan of agony.

As Castiel drew back his hand, the burning heat faded as slowly as it had arrived, gradually becoming less painful with each second, until it eventually dissolved into nothingness, as if it had never been there.

Once he felt the normalcy of his own, pain-free body, Sam glanced over his shoulder, meeting Castiel's piercing blue eyes, which were almost hidden under furrowed brows. "Is it gone?" Castiel looked up at him and nodded, rolling down his sleeves. "Then...now what?" Sam inquired.

Castiel didn't hesitate before responding. "We exorcise it."

The minute those words escaped his lips, chaos seemed to invade Sam's mind, blacking out reality. His head was thrown back forcefully, and, through partially-closed eyes, Sam watched black smoke erupt from his mouth and escape through the vents of the air-conditioning unit. It was the demon, Sam realized. The demon was getting away, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

Finally the sensation faded, and Sam felt...empty. He'd been possessed for so long...it was almost like the demon had become a part of him after all that time. As his vision cleared, Sam opened his mouth to speak. But a sudden rushing sensation in his mind prevented his words from forming on his lips. He blinked rapidly, trying to get ahold of himself. He didn't succeed. In seconds, he found the floor zooming to meet him.

Sam was out before his body hit the ground.

* * *

 _"Sic 'em, boy."_

 _After those words escaped Lilith's lips, the only thing Sam could register was the look of terror on his older brother's face. His own fear consumed his insides when he was met with a rancid blast of air in his face, and the sound of a massive animal rocketing at lightning speed into the room._

 _Sam stood frozen in shock, trapped against the wall by the force of Lilith's power. He was forced to watch as Dean was yanked down from the table where he had been sprawled across. An invisible force dug its claws into his brother's torso and blood spurted out._

 _"No!_ Stop!" _Sam cried desperately as the sound of Dean's screams because unbearable._

 _The older Winchester's body was soaked in his own blood, his right leg a mess and his chest continuously being torn to shreds. Dean rolled onto his stomach, still screaming in agony._

 _"STOP IT!" Sam demanded, tears welling in his eyes as he was forced to watch his own brother suffer._

 _There was a small, patronizing smile playing on Lilith's lips. It made Sam's stomach churn that she could just watch Dean die without even feeling a bit of empathy. She was a demon, after all. Always had. She'd never known exactly what it felt like to understand and experience human emotions._

 _Claw slashes appeared on Dean's back and shoulder. "No!" Sam exclaimed. His brother flipped back onto his back and more gashes materialized on his chest. All the younger Winchester could do was watch in horror as the hellhound ripped his brother to shreds. "No. Stop it."_

 _He was giving up. Lilith wasn't listening. But as Dean began to go still, Sam could tell. These breaths were becoming his last. "STOP IT!" Sam screamed at the demon bitch, desperate. He wasn't going to lose his brother again. Because this time, it was for real._

 _Dean was silent now. Not dead yet, but he was waiting. Waiting for that inevitable moment when everything would just go dark, and he'd slip away into the depths of Hell. Sam couldn't let that happen._

 _"NO!" That one word came out like a sob. Lilith looked to him, a massive smile forming on her lips, becoming larger by the second. It was triumphant. And then she spoke._

 _"Yes."_

 _She lifted her hand, and sudden white light shot out, aimed straight at him. It was blinding, and Sam turned his head, shielding his face. He sunk down and pressed his body into the corner of the cabinet near him as the brightness intensified. Then it was silent._

 _It took him a while to realize that the light had disappeared, but when he did, he slowly brought down his hands to expose his face. His eyes met with Lilith's, and he rose to his feet. Lilith moved her gaze to the floor and held out her hand before looking back at him. She looked…afraid. Vulnerable._

 _But he didn't care._

 _"Back." Lilith said finally, sounding more like she did when Ruby had possessed that host. Her voice was weak. Sam inhaled deeply and disobeyed, taking a step forward. Terror filled her eyes and she spoke again. "I said, back."_

 _Determined, Sam bent down and retrieved Ruby's knife from the floor. Loathing filled him to the brim and he tightened his grip on the hilt._

 _The fear in Lilith's expression was rapidly growing as he neared her. "I don't think so." He responded quietly._

 _Sam moved to stab her with the knife, but before he had a chance, black smoke escaped from Ruby's vessel's mouth and then Lilith was gone. The unknown girl's body collapsed to the floor, but Sam barely registered that she was there. His eyes were focused solely on his brother's broken and bloodied body. His eyes were open, and he was silent._

 _He was dead, and Sam knew it._

 _Sam's breaths came out in sharp gasps as he approached the body of a man who had just hours ago been singing joyously to Bon Jovi._

 _Tears built up in his eyes as he knelt down beside his brother, lifting him up and holding his limp head close to him._

 _"No…" He choked out. "No…Dean…" He hung his head, hopeless. The tears spilled down his cheeks now. "Dean…" He repeated, as if somehow wishing that his brother would suddenly suck in a breath and wake up. But it wasn't going to happen…_

 _Dean was gone forever, and there was nothing he could do about it._

* * *

Corinne couldn't take her eyes off Dean's face as she settled down in the chair beside his bed. His breaths were steady, made louder by the machine he was hooked up to. He looked so innocent, so vulnerable, just lying there...if only he were simply sleeping.

"How's it going, huh?" Corinne murmured, taking his hand in her own before cursing herself internally. She was being irrational. There was _nothing_ special about Dean Angus...she didn't know why she had become so entranced with him. Corinne recalled Liz's words about nurses and patients…

 _Don't get too attached to this guy. I've heard stories about nurses and doctors getting close to certain patients...and it really doesn't end well._

And Corinne was going to follow her friend's advice. Yes, she knew that there was some kind of emotion inside her that was gradually growing every time she caught a glimpse of Dean, but she wasn't stupid.

It was strictly nurse and patient, from now on. Corinne pulled her hand away from Dean's and placed it in her lap, dreading that thought. But she could still talk to him, right? How many times had she been told that it was a good thing to communicate with comatose patients?

"You've gotta power through, Dean." She told him. "You're strong, I can see that." Her words were truthful. "I'll be right here when you wake up. And so will your brother, Sam. You want to see him...right?"

Corinne hated this. A coma was the worst possible condition that could happen to a person, in her opinion. Stuck in a deep sleep, unable to snap back into reality and open your eyes...she couldn't imagine what it would be like, especially if the patient could hear everything happening in the outside world, as she had been told was highly possible in some cases.

 _"Corinne Acker, report to the front desk for a message, please."_ The loudspeaker blared through the quietude of the ICU, and Corinne closed her eyes and sighed before climbing to her feet.

She didn't even steal a glance back at Dean before leaving.

* * *

 _All that Dean could register was the feeling of the girl's soft lips on his. And they were hot lips. Wait, what was her name again?_ Who cares? _Dean told himself inwardly. He tended to do that a lot. He had no interest in a committed relationship, and he didn't care._

 _Pleasure filled him to the brim as they both continued to sink deeper into the kiss. It took a him a minute to blink out of his trance when he realized there was a knocking at the door of the broom closet they hid in. Dean pulled away slightly to answer. "Five more minutes, Jerry."_

 _He was just beginning to snake his hand towards the girl's chest, but he didn't get there. The door opened, and they jumped away from each other. Amanda, his current girlfriend, stood in the hallway, an emotionless expression on her face._

Craaaappp. _Dean thought, scolding himself. He should've gotten rid of Amanda first. He didn't like to be the bad guy. But this other girl was friggin' hot. Dean strode out of the closet, trying to keep an easy-going air around him._

 _"Amanda, hey!" He said quickly, trying to cover himself up. He looked at the other girl._ Oh, right. Carly, that's her name. _That didn't matter now. "Gettysburg Address, 1863, right?" Carly gawked at him, obviously confused, but he ignored her and turned back to Amanda. "History test next period. We're studying."_

 _Amanda gave him a disbelieving look, and Dean struggled to redeem himself. "Come on, baby. She means nothing to me. Don't be mad."_

 _"I'm not mad, Dean." Amanda responded, honestly enough. "I thought maybe…underneath your whole_ 'I could give a crap' _bad-boy thing, that there was something more going on. I mean, like the way your are with your brother. But I was wrong." Dean's heart dropped, but he remained silent. "And you spend so much time trying to convince people that you're cool, but it's just an act." Amanda's tone was becoming considerably colder. "We both know that you're just a sad…lonely little kid. And I feel sorry for you, Dean."_

 _"You feel sorry for me, huh?" Dean demanded, trying to push away that feeling of hurt that was growing inside of him. "Don't feel sorry for me. You don't know anything about me. I save lives. I'm a hero._ A hero!" _Amanda ignored him and walked off without another word. Everyone around him now stared at him, disapproving looks etched into their expressions. "What?_ What!?" _Dean challenged them, defensive._

 _That hurt sensation was becoming stronger, turning to a feeling of hopelessness. Why was everything wrong in his life? Dad was always gone, Sam only relied on him for protection. Nothing more. He was completely and utterly unloved and unaccepted. He should have seen it by now. No one cared for him, and that was a fact._

 _He had no reason to continue living._

 _The minute that crossed his mind, the sensation became overwhelming, and his vision rapidly began to blur. The colors of his surroundings whisked away, and he was suddenly engulfed in pitch black, unseeable darkness._

 _And he finally felt peace._

* * *

To say that Castiel was in state of intense panic was an understatement. His hands were shaking and feverish as he crushed the ingredients into the mortar with a pestle. "Just hold on, Sam," He gasped out to the younger Winchester, who laid unconscious at his feet. "Just _hold on."_

Of course, the hunter uttered no reply. Castiel slowly pulled the three ingredients that had been so hard to find from his trench coat pocket. The mixture of eleuthero root and African dream root was ready to be added to, and Castiel didn't hesitate to do so.

He first emptied the sample of both Dean and Sam's blood into the mortar, followed immediately by the crushed-up remains of the Nephilim's bone. Cass slowly ground the bone and blood, unwilling to complete the antidote at first.

He poured half of the mixture into a large syringe before reluctantly withdrawing the vial containing Chamuel's Grace from inside his trench coat. His hands shook as he split the Grace evenly, tipping half into the remedy. The glowing, icy blue substance combined with the remainder of the ingredients and Castiel lifted the syringe, studying it closely.

It was now or never.

He knelt down beside Sam's motionless form and, without a second thought, stuck the needle into his neck. The younger Winchester offered no reaction, and he didn't for a long while.

The wait was tiresome, and Castiel was beginning to lose hope. But, after a good hour of virtually nothing, Sam emitted a groan and his lids fluttered open to reveal hazel eyes fogged over with confusion as he registered where he was lying. "Cass?"

"Sam." Castiel acknowledged him quietly. "How do you feel?"

The hunter frowned after he had succeeded in pulling himself upright. "Uh…normal." He answered, rubbing his forehead. "I think." He wasn't lying…he really did feel completely back to his typical self, as crazy as that sounded. "Cass…" He trailed off, looking up at his friend with relief flooding his gaze. "I think it worked." Castiel couldn't help but a crack a thankful smile as he helped Sam to his feet.

The younger Winchester suddenly turned to him and enveloped him in a tight embrace. "Thank you." His voice held a gratitude that Cass truthfully hadn't had directed at himself for a long while. Cass returned the embrace hesitantly. Sam pulled back with his hands still on the angel's shoulders.

"Dean." He said quickly. "We need to get this to Dean _right now."_

* * *

Corinne could've sworn it was her own heart giving out as she watched the doctors and nurses scrambling frantically around Dean's convulsing form. She stood motionless a distance off, watching him fight for breath from afar with tears welling her eyes. She always got this way…no matter who the patient was…man, woman, child. This was affecting her even more since she had unwilling formed a connection with Dean in particular.

She could've helped him.

 _Don't think that way._ She scolded herself inwardly. He wasn't dead yet. Dean had gone quite suddenly into cardiac arrest, just minutes after she'd left the room before. But before she knew it, the frantic scrambling ceased and Dean lay still.

Holding her breath, she watched, clutching the doorframe tightly. Doctor Birne stepped back, glancing briefly at the heart monitor. Corinne waited with bated breath, digging her fingertips into the wood. "Stabilized." Doctor Birne said finally. Corinne relaxed, sagging against the door and breathing deeply. "I need someone to stay with him. Nurse—"

"I'll stay with him." Corinne jumped in before he could assign the position to anyone else. Birne turned to look at her and she straightened, placing her hands on her hips.

"Very well," He responded, stripping off his gloves. "Everyone, you are dismissed. Miss Acker, keep a close eye on Mr. Angus and alert us if anything out of the ordinary occurs." She nodded, claiming the seat beside Dean's bed. As the doctor left, she took hold of his slack hand.

Corinne was still in that position when Dean's brother arrived, hands casually stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. He cleared his throat to signal to her that he was there, and she turned, refusing to let go of Dean's hand. "Hey." She greeted him.

"I…I heard about what happened? He's okay right now?" Despite his words, Sam didn't seem all that concerned about his brother's well-being. Corinne chose not to mention that.

"He's fine." She assured him. "Really."

Sam nodded. "Well…can I have a moment alone with him? I just…want a little privacy, you know?" He chuckled nervously, and Corinne looked from him to Dean's face, contemplating.

"I don't know, Sam," She said reluctantly. "I was told to stay with him, to report if anything occurred that was either good or bad."

Sam smiled. "And I'm glad you care, Corinne. But I can easily push the emergency button if anything happens. Just go take a break…I'm his brother, nothing bad's gonna happen to him when I'm around, I promise."

Corinne bit her lip and hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I guess you're right." She said, climbing to her feet and stretching. "I'll be back in a while. Call me if you need anything." She strode out of the room without another word.

Sam approached his brother's bed, slipping the antidote vial and a clean syringe from each pocket. "Okay, Dean," He said. "I'm gonna get you outta this mess." He emptied the remainder of the cure into the syringe and gingerly fingered the end of the needle. Taking a deep breath, he inserted it slowly, but surely, into the older Winchester's neck.

It was done.

Now, the only thing he had to do was wait. He stood, staring down at his brother's comatose face. Somehow he looked more peaceful. Maybe it was just him, but he could feel that he was going to wake up…

And soon.

* * *

Corinne's heavy eyelids blinked open, and she inhaled deeply, rolling onto her back. A pounding headache reigned supreme, and she groaned. As her eyesight cleared, she found herself lying on the floor of a cramped, musty space. A broom closet, she realized.

What the hell was going on? Last she remembered, she was walking out of the ICU at Sam's request…he had suggested she take a break from watching Dean. That was all she could recall from the moment she exited Division #4.

Corinne pulled her body, which felt like a chunk of lead, into a sitting position, clutching at her head with a grimace on her face. Shit, she was still at work. How long had she been asleep? Doctor Birne was going to _kill_ her for abandoning her post. He'd specifically instructed her to watch Dean.

Had he realized she was gone yet? It depended on how long she'd been out. Corinne climbed wearily to her feet, clutching the wall for support. All she really wanted to do was pass out on her couch at home, but she had only just started her shift when she'd offered to watch Dean.

Corinne was hurrying through the double doors of the ICU in a flash, almost bolting to where Dean lay exactly the way she'd left him. His face was angled slightly towards her, but Corinne didn't consider it anything out of the ordinary.

She lowered herself into the chair beside his bed and smiled at his sleeping form. "Hey, Dean. You doing okay now?" She sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Well, don't you worry. You're gonna be just fine." Corinne narrowed her eyes as she intertwined her fingers together.

When she looked up, her gaze was met with the bright green eyes of one Dean Angus.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Everything was a haze. Dean could barely see straight. He blinked multiple times, trying to clear his vision to no avail. He could hear voices above him. Or was that only one voice? It was female, he could tell. Dean closed his eyes again and simply attempted to focus his hearing on what the voice was saying to him.

"Dean Angus? Is that your name?"

Dean groaned, trying to shift into a more upright position. Earlier there had been some kind of tube stuck down his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. It was gone now. The voice was steadily continuing, repeating the name _Dean Angus_ over and over again.

"…Winchester…" Dean managed to mutter under his breath. The woman didn't appear to hear him. There were more voices now, male and female, too much for Dean to handle. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep. But there was one voice that stood out in the crowd, familiar enough to force Dean's eyes to open.

 _Sam's._

"—my brother, let me see him!" Sam was demanding. Dean's eyelids cracked open an inch more, and he groaned out.

" _S'mmy…"_

"He's asking for him, Doctor," A female voice sounded from above him.

" _Not. yet."_ A low, gravelly male voice responded. "He's much too unstable. We need to get everything under control before family is allowed to see him."

The only thing Dean could process from the doctor's statement was that Sam wouldn't be allowed to see him. White hot anger flooded through him and he heard a flurry of beeps emitted from the heart monitor beside his bed. He flew upwards, immediately gasping out in pain, and a deluge of hands stopped him from doing anything more.

" _Hold him down."_ It was the same doctor from before. Dean was really starting to not like the old bastard.

The nurses and doctors surrounding him managed to push him down so that he rested against the pillows and Dean watched as a pretty, dark-haired nurse emptied the contents of a syringe into his IV bag.

 _A sedative._ He realized.

"S'mmy…" Dean mumbled, his eyes meeting the nurse's soulful blue ones. She held his gaze and gave him a tiny smile. Strangely, it calmed him. She reached out and tenderly touched his cheek. His eyelids slanted downwards, and soon the world went black.

* * *

"Sir?"

The demon's voice was small and meek. This had been her biggest failure yet, and she hardly ever made mistakes like this.

"Yes, love?" The King of Hell's voice wasn't sharp, but that smooth British accent of his was enough to make her blood run cold. It always was. It caught her off-guard for a moment, and there was a silence between the two of them. "I'm _waiting."_

"Dean Winchester is awake, sir." The words tumbled out of her mouth at high speed and she slammed her jaw closed before speaking again. "I'm deeply sorry, my king."

She closed her eyes, awaiting the blow she would surely get, but it never came. Instead, a long pause commenced between the two before Crowley spoke, sounding strangely calm despite the news she had just informed him of.

"That is quite all right, love," He answered. "It was a flimsy plan in the first place, if I must say so myself. Poorly crafted, much too amateur for your capabilities." That was certainly not the response the demon had been expecting.

"I must disagree, sir," She countered. "It was a _brilliant_ plan. It's really my fault that it went so wrong." She was just kissing up to him, but she hoped that her words would sound genuine. Crowley scarcely noticed her lie. He was silent for a time before speaking, and she attempted to continue. "I can keep trying, sir—"

"No." Crowley interrupted. "What's the point? It seems Squirrel has powered through. Fought to remain human and alive. He would've received so many rewards for his service to me…pity, really…he showed such promise as my right-hand man."

"You want me to…give up?" The demon was mortified.

"You _will_ be rewarded for your service, darling." Crowley assured. "I apologize, but some missions do fail. I am aware of your investment in this specific one." There was real sentiment in his tone, and it greatly surprised the demon. This wasn't like Crowley at all.

"Very well, sir…if that is what you wish, I will stop." The demon struggled to keep her voice calm and collected, as to hide the fury bubbling within her. She pulled the phone away from her ear and slammed it closed. Her fingers tightened around it so tightly her knuckles paled and her hand began to tremble.

Crowley expected her to simply drop the mission she'd been devoting every ounce her energy to? He had to be insane…and quite dense if he believed her claim to drop everything and run, leaving the Winchesters without a scratch on them.

So, she came up with a new plan, and this time she was following her own terms and conditions. First, kill Dean. That was the original plan of action in the first place. She would leave Sam alone…the loss of his brother would be damaging enough. Even more than death. And she wanted to damage him most of all.

He had, after all, been the cause of her failure. Let him feel defeat. Let him feel hopeless. Let him feel useless. With this plan…

She was killing two birds with one stone.

* * *

All Dean could register once he surfaced to consciousness was the intense pain in his head. There was a low, steady beeping that was sounding from beside him. Dean found it incredibly difficult to open his eyes, so instead, he lifted his heavy arm, trying to massage his aching forehead.

A hand stopped him, followed by a familiar voice. "Easy, Dean." _Sam._ It was Sam. Those two small words his brother spoke were enough to give Dean the motivation to lift his eyelids. He was met with a blinding white light that seemed to sear his eyes.

Dean groaned and slammed his lids shut again, embracing the comforting darkness. He heard his brother laugh lightly. "Must be crazy bright compared to what you've gotten used to." Dean didn't respond, simply throwing his arm over his eyes. "No, you don't. You've been out for way too long. About time you woke up." Sam jibed.

Dean sighed and let his arm go down to his side before reluctantly blinking open his eyes. When he caught sight of Sam, sitting beside his bed, he smirked. "Wow." His brother tilted his head. "You look like crap, dude." His voice was scarily rugged.

"Speak for yourself," Sam answered with a chuckle. "How're you feeling, man?"

Dean let out a long breath, all traces of levity disappearing from his expression. "I don't know…" He trailed off, contemplating the right description. "Confused, I guess? I mean…what the hell happened, Sam? One minute I'm passing out in the bunker…and the next I'm waking up here? Choking on some breathing tube? And I feel fine, despite the fact that I'm lying in a hospital bed."

"So you don't feel like you did before you woke up here?" Sam inquired, sounding a hell of a lot like a prying reporter.

"Do you see me blowing chunks?" Dean replied sarcastically.

Sam huffed out an amused breath. "Point taken."

There was a long silence between them. Sam's knee was anxiously bouncing up and down, and it was clear that Dean took notice of his discomfort. "Sammy, what happened?" His voice was soft, yet forceful.

"You were stabbed." Sam answered vaguely.

"Think I've gathered that, dude. _Why_ was I stabbed? I mean, I know I was a pain in the ass, but you didn't have to go to such extremes." His attempt at humor did a poor job in masking the seriousness in his tone, and Sam wasn't fooled.

So he took a deep breath and relayed the events, from start to finish. He failed to mention the demon possessing himself, and it also seemed to slip his mind that the disease had worked its way to Sam as well.

"Let me get this straight…" Dean looked positively bewildered, even without the unspoken information. "I wasn't…just sick? It was a disease called…what now?"

"' _Mortem per somniatis',"_ Sam supplied helpfully. "The damn Nephilim, man. Charity."

"Ah, right. The chick with the ironic name." Dean answered, a small smile forming on his lips. But it was a confused grin. "That means I'm famous, right? One of the only people in history who had a disease caused by a Nephilim… _awesome."_ He chuckled and looked back to his brother. "You said it was Crowley's doing?"

"Put a demon on the job to make sure you died in case the disease didn't do the job." Sam affirmed. "For some reason, Crowley wanted you dead."

"Sammy, who _doesn't_ that bastard want dead?" Dean remarked. Sam couldn't disagree. "But, Jesus…he wanted me dead just while I was doing him a favor. Thought he wanted me to get that bitch Abaddon…" He trailed off and met Sam's gaze. "You sure you don't know his motive?"

Sam gave a shrug, genuinely perplexed.

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face wearily. Sam inhaled deeply and stood. "Well, I'm gonna let you get some rest. I'll be back later." Dean nodded without saying a word. His younger brother gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Dean leaned his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

* * *

He was moments away from sleep. It was almost as if he were teetering on the edge, stuck between consciousness and unconsciousness. Dean was more than ready to give into the unconsciousness. But just as sleep began to wash over him, he subconsciously noticed a presence in the room. The hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck kind of noticing.

His lids slowly cracked open and he was met with the sight of a nurse. A nurse with the same pretty blue eyes he'd seen right before he'd passed out after coming out of the coma. She was quietly inserting another syringe-full of sedative into his IV bag, as if she were attempting not to wake him.

"Hey, you're awake," She remarked when she caught sight of him, beaming kindly. "I was starting to wonder when I'd see those pretty green eyes again." The flirtation was obvious in her tone. "Oh!" She cut off with an awkward laugh. "I almost forgot to introduce myself. I'm Corinne—Corinne Acker. I'm a resident here."

Dean gave her a suspicious look, and she seemed to read his mind. "No, Mr. Angus, I am _not_ twenty-six. I started college late, plus I'm still going to medical school. Let's just say I'm a few years over thirty and leave it at that. Deal?"

Dean cleared his throat and smirked. He liked this chick, plus she was drop-dead gorgeous…especially in those blue scrubs. "Deal. Uh…I'm Dean Angus." She gave him a look, causing him to feel incredibly stupid.

"Sweetie, I'm an resident in the ICU, and the doc assigned me to your room. I think I know who you are, Dean." She paused. "Or would you prefer Mr. Angus?" Dean cringed at that, which triggered a laugh on Corinne's part. "I'll take that as a ' _no'."_

He held her gaze and she smiled slightly, not looking away. "Well, that sedative should be kicking in any minute now. Here…" Corinne moved to the side of his bed and adjusted his pillows. "Scoot down…okay, now lie back." His eyelids were fluttering, she could see. Corinne rested her hand on his shoulder. "Just close your eyes, Dean."

And that's what he did.

Corinne turned to leave, but she wouldn't remember walking out of his room. The one who would, though…

Her eyes flashed an evil shade of black as she crossed the threshold.

* * *

"And you're sure the disease is gone?" Castiel's voice was awed. He knew the answer was yes, of course. Sam was completely cured, which meant Dean would be as well. It felt so relieving to be the one helping the Winchesters for once. For a while, he'd been more of a burden than anything.

"Yeah," Sam exhaled slowly. "He'd been so close, Cass, I know it. I was worried that it was a hopeless case, but…he woke up. He really woke up." A smile formed on his face, even himself delivering the news was exhilarating in its own way.

Castiel smiled as well at Sam's obvious elation. He turned his gaze to the outside world, which whipped by them too quickly for him to take note of every detail. He'd always had an unusual obsession with nature, ever since he'd raised Dean from perdition and had truly been introduced to the human world.

Everything about it was so…beautiful, yet also so simple. Castiel was only broken from his trance when Sam's hand reached for the radio. Soon enough, Led Zeppelin was blasting through the cab of the Impala. It vibrated through Cass, and he shot the younger Winchester a questioning glance.

"' _Ramble On'._ It's one of Dean's favorite songs."

Castiel raised his eyebrows, stifling a chuckle at the clear joy that Sam was showing. It was rare to find either of the brothers in a mood like this, and Castiel enjoyed it. Positivity never ceased to distract any hunter from the horror of the job they handled.

But he couldn't help but be bothered by the tragedy he had caused by simply aiding the Winchesters. The child he'd murdered in cold blood, the Grace he'd stolen with hardly a second thought. He was willing to risk so much for Sam and Dean, and in the end, he always wondered if it was really worth it.

But the answer was simple. Yes, yes it was.

* * *

Dean was sound asleep when Cass and Sam entered his room. Corinne had warned them that he might be when they'd passed her in the hallway, but Sam wouldn't have been surprised either way. Dean had looked absolutely beat when Sam had left earlier.

They didn't have to wait long for him to wake up, though, which Sam was particularly relieved by. He was sick of sitting by his bed as if he was gonna croak any second. Sam briefly explained to his brother about how he really had Castiel to thank for saving his life.

As Castiel listened, however, he wondered why Sam hadn't uttered a word about what he had been through while Dean had been comatose. The demon inside of him, he himself suffering from ' _Mortem per somniatis'."_

But that was how the Winchesters operated, he decided eventually. They kept silent about the things that mattered most. It wasn't good for them to keep things from each other, but Castiel figured he shouldn't break the pattern. Dean would find out over time.

"Well, I guess I really owe you, Cass. Big time." Dean said, offering his hand to his friend. Castiel shook it firmly and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You don't, Dean. Anything for a friend."

Dean raised his eyebrows at him and then looked to Sam. "Well, won't you look at that? No longer that selfish son of a bitch from six years ago, eh?" Sam chuckled, and Castiel was mildly hurt before he recognized the teasing tone in the older Winchester's voice.

"But, really," Dean continued, all business now. "I owe you guys. If you hadn't taken action like you had, I'd be a pile of ashes right now. I'd offer to buy you both a drink, but I'm kinda stuck here for the time being."

"Another time, man." Sam promised with a grin.

"Good. We'll book a date." Dean joked. There was exhaustion evident in his tone, and Sam took note. Before he could say anything, though, Dean spoke for himself. "Now, get the hell outta here. I need my beauty sleep, you know. Besides, there's nothing else to do in this damn prison."

Sam and Castiel said their goodbyes, and soon were out of his skin. Dean was passed out before his head even hit the pillow.

* * *

The demon waited until Corinne had gone home and to bed. No point in making her even more suspicious than she already was. The minute Corinne slipped into unconsciousness, the demon was standing over Dean's sleeping form. He was stirring when she arrived, but the demon wasn't fazed. The kill would be quick and efficient…maybe.

She leaned over his slumbering form, and she distinctly saw his green eyes crack open just as her fingers wrapped around his exposed neck.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Dean couldn't breathe.

Azazel was choking the life out of him. Wait, no. That couldn't be. Yellow-Eyes was long dead. Dean peered at his attacker through half-lidded eyes. Warm hands were latched around his throat, cutting off his air supply.

His vision was spotted, so all Dean could make out was a dark profile. The fingers tightened their grip, forcing his eyes closed. His entire body heaved, searching for just a breath of air. Vaguely, Dean heard the heart monitor by his bed emitting a series of panicked beeps.

Dean wasn't sure what they meant, but all he knew was they signified that he was most definitely dying.

" _Doctor Birne, report to Room 204 immediately. I repeat, Doctor Birne, report to Room 204_ immediately."

Dean was coherent enough to hear the muffled announcement through the loudspeaker. "Oh, well. I'll have to try another time, now, won't I, _sweetie?"_ The hands released from his throat and Dean sucked in all of the air he could in just one single breath.

Wait a minute. He _recognized_ that voice. Still breathing laboriously, he cracked his eyes open just enough for him to see. He caught a long dark ponytail and pure blue eyes before the sound of swishing scrubs faded down the hallway.

 _Corinne._

Dean teetered on the edge of consciousness, his brain unable to focus on one single thought. His breath wasn't going back to normal, causing his chest to feel like it was aflame. His eyelids fluttered and his body heaved.

"Oh my God." It was that doctor again.

Dean's hearing faded.

Then there was the muffled sound of the loudspeaker.

Silence.

Then a series of voices, male and female.

Nothing.

Hands touched his chest. A cold object settled around his mouth. He could breathe again. Each warm exhalation billowed back against his lips.

Dean struggled to open his eyes, to no avail. His sudden ability to breathe caused exhaustion to filter through him. All he wanted to do was sleep. But doctors and nurses were still milling around him, preventing him from doing so.

The noise died down as the group thinned out. Dean started to relax, savoring the newfound silence. A hand settled on his shoulder and he jerked in surprise, which therefore forced his eyes to open.

"Mr. Angus, I need you to stay awake for now." It was that damned Doctor Birne again. "Just focus on your breathing…can you do that for me? In…and out. In…and out." Dean obeyed reluctantly. "That's it. Just keep doing that."

 _You son of a bitch._ Dean thought sourly.

After a good five minutes of that, Dean could admit that it felt considerably easier to breathe steadily. All traces of drowsiness had dissipated.

A nurse who wasn't Corinne entered his room soon after Doctor Birne's departure and propped him up against his pillows. She claimed that sitting up would help his breathing maintain a normal rate. She then left as well, but the oxygen mask stayed put.

Dean's head fell back against the pillow as he inhaled shakily. He wasn't safe _here,_ in a hospital of all places. He had to tell Sam.

Corinne, or whoever she was working for, was out for his blood.

* * *

"And you're _sure_ he'll be okay?" Sam's voice held an intense undertone of panic. "What exactly happened?" He blurted out before the nurse on the phone could answer his first question.

"I assure you, Mr. Angus. Your brother will be good as new sooner than later." Sam relaxed slightly, but still stood tensely with the phone pressed against his ear. "We're not entirely sure of the exact cause of Dean's breathing incident. All we know is that it came on quite suddenly…one minute he was fine, the next…unable to breathe. You've no need to worry, though. We'll run a few more tests on him to find the exact problem."

"I'll be there right away." Sam said quickly.

"Mr. Angus, there's no need. Your brother is in good hands. It's late and besides, it's past—"

"No." Sam cut her off. "I understand it's past visiting hours, but I need to see him, okay? Please. Call it an emergency visit." There was a silence on the other end of the line before the nurse finally responded grudgingly.

"Very well, Mr. Angus. _One_ exception."

"I won't be long." Sam ended the call and stumbled to his feet, running a hand swiftly through his hair. He'd fallen asleep in a T-shirt and jeans, and he pulled on shoes and a plaid button-down at record speed before bolting out to their garage.

He was in the Impala and on the road in no time.

* * *

"Dean?" Sam rapped his knuckles on the doorframe of his brother's hospital room before entering. The older Winchester looked up in bewilderment as he crossed the threshold. "Hey, man." Sam greeted him with a tired grin.

"Sammy? The hell you doing here?" Dean's voice was coherent enough, but Sam could see the dazed look in his green eyes.

"Why do you think?" Sam replied. Dean didn't answer, simply narrowing his eyes in response. "How're you feeling, huh?"

Dean's brow furrowed. He was mildly surprised that his brother hadn't come right out with the question of what had happened. Maybe he should be glad. He was having trouble processing it at the moment anyway. "Fine, I guess." He said slowly. "A little winded, but I'm glad they finally took that damned oxygen mask off of me."

Sam chuckled lightly and nodded. Dean could see the relief in the other hunter's face. He must've been putting him through so much stress. Sam looked exhausted. It made Dean have second thoughts about telling him everything regarding Corinne.

Would it make it better or worse?

That question was answered just a second later. Swishing scrubs and a waving dark ponytail walked through the doorway and Dean's body heaved with shock. Corinne's blue eyes met his green ones and he lurched away from her as she entered.

" _Get the hell away from me!"_

His sudden yell caused Sam to jerk in surprise. "Dean?" He looked back and forth between his brother and Corinne, bewildered. She appeared just as confused. "What's wrong, man, huh?" He tried to put on a hand on his shoulder, but Dean rejected him. "Calm down, Dean."

"It was her, Sammy, it was her." Dean struggled to explain through rapid breaths. His heart monitor was going crazy.

" _What_ was her, Dean!?" Sam exclaimed, his gaze snapping to Corinne. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask her if she knew, but she simply shook her head.

"Sammy, I swear to God. That _bitch—"_ Corinne looked slightly offended. "—came in here and choked me! Sh—she tried to _kill_ me!"

Sam finally understood. He was on his feet in just seconds, facing down a rather befuddled-looking Corinne. "Is that true?" She blinked a few times, but said nothing. Sam was becoming agitated. " _Did you try to kill my brother?"_

" _No."_ Corinne choked out. "I would never do that."

"You did, you crazy bitch." Dean spat.

"Sam…" Corinne trailed off. "Can I talk to you…in private?" She raised her eyebrows at him and gestured towards the hallway outside of Dean's room. Sam shot a look at his brother before nodding slowly.

Once out of Dean's earshot, Corinne leaned in. "Sam, I don't believe that Dean is completely in his right mind. He might seem coherent when he really isn't. I think his brain is trying to come up with an answer to how his breathing incident occurred. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I think so." Sam responded quietly. "And…I guess you're right." He sighed heavily and looked into Dean's room where he sat frigidly. "I'm sorry. He's my brother, and I can usually trust him with my life."

Corinne put a hand on his arm. "No worries, Sam. He's family, I'm a sketchy hospital resident wielding a questionable-looking syringe." Sam chuckled lightly and nodded. She exhaled harshly, a smile forming on her lips. "Speaking of that syringe…would you mind if I gave Dean a small sedative? It'll calm him down and help him sleep easily. Doctor Birne suggested it."

"Of course." Sam responded. "Just let me quickly say goodbye to him." Corinne dipped her head and Sam peeked into the room. Dean met his gaze immediately, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ' _Do you believe me?'._ Sam didn't have the heart to give him an answer. "I'm gonna head out, dude. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sam was out the door before he could see the expression on his brother's face.

* * *

"Get away from me." Dean growled through gritted teeth as Corinne once again entered the room. "What do you want, huh?"

She smiled widely at him. "For you to get a good night's sleep, of course." Her tone was sickly sweet, causing a knot to form in Dean's stomach. Corinne pulled out a syringe dripping with clear liquid and tilted her head at him. "Small sedative. What do you think? IV or no?" She paused before grinning. "Who am I kidding? IV wouldn't be _nearly_ as entertaining."

She stalked right up to the side of his bed and prepared the needle in one hand. She reached for his arm and he yanked it away. "Aw, don't be scared of a little needle, Deano. It won't hurt _that_ bad." Her voice was taunting, yet Dean could detect a hint of pure hatred.

Corinne grabbed ahold of him and stabbed the needle straight into his forearm without warning. Dean gasped out, and she beamed at his pain. "See? Wasn't so bad, now was it, Mr. ' _Angus'?"_ He met her gaze with a glare. "That sedative should be kicking in soon now."

Small _sedative._ Dean thought deliriously. _Real small. I feel like I just downed about fifty Purple Nurples._

The medicine messed so much with his head that he nearly forgot _who_ had just given it him. As Corinne was leaving, he watched her go with heavy-lidded eyes. "You guys're given me s'much crap…" He grumbled. "Event'lly 'm gonna croak fr'm it all…" His eyes slipped all the way closed, and he mumbled something else unintelligible before beginning to snore quietly.

"Damn." The demon said at the door. "I sure hope you don't. That'd take all the fun out of it."

* * *

Castiel lifted the mug to his lips, allowing the bitter black coffee to enter his mouth. For once, it didn't taste bad. Maybe it only really did when he was staring into the face of impending doom. Now, it just tasted…well, he'd call it bearable.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Cass lifted his head and met the gaze of a pretty waitress with a brunette ponytail. He gave her a small smile that she returned. He peered into his mug, which he found empty. "Refill on the coffee, please…" Castiel shot a glance at her name tag. "Alex?"

"Sure thing." Alex took his cup and began to move away. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

Cass watched her retreating figure disappear into the kitchen of the diner. When he looked back, he found dark eyes staring back at him from across the table. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. "Amriel." He greeted the other angel.

"Castiel."

"I see you decided to follow my example and stick with the same vessel." Castiel's voice was cautious, and Amriel clearly noticed.

"Yes. I prefer this specific one, most seem to find his appearance quite… _intimidating."_ Cass couldn't disagree. With his big-boned features and incredible height, he looked a lot like he could snap him in half with his bare hands.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and swallowed harshly. "So…why are you here?"

Amriel gave him a wide smile that held no trace of kindness. "Oh, my dear brother, I think you know why." His tone was sinister, which caused Castiel to shift uncomfortably in his chair. When he received no answer, Amriel chuckled darkly. "I don't know how you can just _sit_ there."

"It's actually quite simple," Castiel grumbled awkwardly. "All you have to do is stay still." His eyes met Amriel's, who didn't appear amused in the slightest. Cass averted his gaze, cleared his throat, and bit his lip.

"You baffle me, Castiel," Amriel said. "Truly, you do. In the past few weeks, you've successfully managed to betray three angels who _trusted_ you." He sat back, and linked his fingers together. "One, you kill. The next, you steal their identity as an angel. And the last one, well…" He smirked. "You _used_ to find the one whose identity you stole." His dark eyes bored into Cass's. "You made me an _accomplice,_ Castiel."

"No, Amriel," Castiel protested. "You aren't. Everything I've done is _my fault,_ and my fault only. You needn't blame yourself, it was me, after all, who was helping the Winchest—"

"The _Winchesters."_ Amriel spat. "It's always those Winchesters with you, isn't it, Castiel? You prioritize them…or any human, for that matter…above your _own_ brethren. It's _disgraceful."_

"Amriel, I—"

The other angel refused to allow him to finish. "In any case…I merely came with a message. To inform you that Heaven and any angel of the Lord will no longer aid you in your…' _personal missions'._ Farewell, Castiel. I wish you well."

Amriel had vanished into thin air by the time Alex returned with Castiel's coffee. It no longer tasted bearable.

* * *

A tear slipped down Crowley's cheek as Jamie told Landon about her illness. What a terribly _tragic_ story. His attention averted from the screen and he swiped the moisture from his face. What a softie he was becoming. Damned human blood…

But he couldn't quit it.

Crowley grabbed a hold of the remote and switched off the television. Lola was out…again. He didn't have the slightest clue what that woman did when she was gone, but he didn't have the heart to suspect her of anything.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. What the bloody hell was happening to him? Where had the King of Hell gone? The badass, merciless demon who couldn't care less about a rerun of a sappy movie on TV.

But now? He was different. Weak, helpless…a hopeless case, if you wanted to label him in any way possible. The list could go on forever. Abaddon would make a better ruler of Hell. Much better than he had ever been.

A small part of Crowley told him to stop thinking that way…to get right back on his feet and start kicking ass again. The old him could knock that entitled ginger bitch to the curb. Not anymore.

For a while, even while lying watching love stories on TV, Crowley could still somehow hold onto the belief that that throne in Hell sat waiting for him, and only him. That Abaddon wouldn't be able to beat him and his followers. He was confident about it, too. And then he received that call from _the_ demon. The demon attempting to carry out his most important mission…

Changing Dean Winchester.

The hunter Crowley had known for years was still that same hunter. The same amount of _living_ and _anti-demon_ he always had been. She had failed. Which meant Crowley had failed just as much as she had.

His first _real,_ honest-to-goodness failure.

* * *

It was late. Or was it early? The demon wasn't quite sure what to call this time. Nevertheless, she figured she should be getting back to Corinne's apartment before she woke up.

The demon made her way back into Dean's hospital room for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He was completely passed out, still in the same position she'd left him in after the sedative had kicked in. His breathing was deep and even, his eyelids twitching as if he were dreaming.

The demon sincerely hoped it was a bad dream.

"You're proving harder to get rid of than I'd anticipated," She told him as she approached, sounding as if she thought he could hear her. "I'm going to have to try harder, I guess. Not a problem, Deano. I'll try as hard as I possibly can…" She leaned closer to his sleeping face until her lips nearly touched his ear.

"Because, mark my words, I'm going to slaughter your sorry ass if it's the _last thing I ever do."_


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Although Corinne had assured Sam that Dean certain _hadn't_ been attacked, he still made sure to make extra precautions. Sam requested maximum security outside his brother's room, which the hospital graciously provided for him, to his surprise.

Amazingly, Dean didn't seem to mind the guard standing outside his door twenty-four seven. In Sam's opinion, he even seemed more…relaxed. He insisted he be taken off any ' _pansy sedatives and painkillers',_ that he ' _could handle a tiny bit of pain once in awhile'._ That proclamation gave his nurses a good laugh, no matter how true it really was.

It had now been almost a week since Dean had had the breathing incident, and he hadn't uttered one more word about how it was Corinne's doing. She now didn't show up around him unless he was asleep, which Sam figured was the best thing to do.

Sam was sitting in the chair by Dean's bedside, which was where he'd been sleeping more than his bed the past couple weeks. His brother was currently sleeping soundly, for once looking as if he were at peace. Sam figured it was the absence of the nightmares, of course, and the fact that he had fallen asleep on his own accord as opposed to a sedative.

The two of them had been talking late into the night. The nurses had eventually stopped trying to make him leave after visiting hours were over. Maybe they sensed the bond that the brothers had.

They were simply conversing about normal everyday things…stuff that any person would talk about.

Dean soon began to tire, and he nearly fell asleep mid-sentence before Sam suggested he get some rest. What had amused Sam had been when Dean, leaning his head back against his propped-up pillow with his eyes shut, stubbornly shook his head and claimed that he wasn't tired.

Two seconds later, he was snoring lightly.

Sam's eyelids were now starting to droop. He was near to sleep, which caused him to let out a yell and nearly jump out his chair as he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Whoa, there. You're gonna wake Dean." A familiar voice remarked.

Sam shot a glance at his brother, who restlessly shifted in his sleep and let out a sleepy grunt before lapsing back into peaceful unconsciousness. He met Corinne's blue gaze, and smiled a little. "Don't think anything's gonna wake that hibernating bear."

Corinne giggled. "Touche." She made her way over to Dean and adjusted his pillows so that he lay on his back instead of propped-up. Dean didn't even stir once. "So…" She mused as she fiddled with his covers. "What are you still doing here, Sam?"

"You know…" Sam sighed. "I just…don't really want to leave him."

Corinne turned back to him with a knowing expression. "Sam, I assure you…your brother will be completely fine. Go home and get some sleep. He's out for the night, I promise. Maybe you can even be back in the morning before he wakes up."

Sam inhaled deeply before nodding. "You're right."

"Okay. Then move along." Corinne said jokingly. "Drive home while you're alert. We don't want you getting in an accident because you fell asleep at the wheel." She nudged his shoulder, and he struggled to his feet.

"I'll see you tomorrow." He was out the door before Corinne could offer a response. She turned back to Dean and found his eyes open and staring at her in real, honest-to-goodness fear. He regarded her while still half-asleep, but, still, the terror was there.

"What do you want from me?" He whispered slowly.

Corinne creased her brow, biting her lip, yearning to tell him that she had done nothing. To assure him that she would never try to hurt him. When she'd heard from the doctor that he wouldn't see her anymore while conscious, she couldn't believe her ears. What had she done for him to think something so awful? But she couldn't question her boss, or Dean.

So she went with it.

"Shh…" She murmured softly, running a hand through his hair. "It'll be okay." If he were more alert, Corinne was positive he'd pull away. But this time he didn't. He was already slipping back into unconsciousness, and Corinne comforted him until his breathing was steady in the rhythm of sleep.

"Dean…" She sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Whatever I did to make you fear me…" She trailed off, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

The demon couldn't help but feel bad for Corinne. She hadn't done anything to deserve this kind of treatment from Dean. All she had ever wanted to do was help him recover. She never asked to be possessed by a demon who wanted to kill her patient.

But the demon didn't have the patience to pity her host for more than a short amount of time. She had problems of her own. Even the guard stationed outside Dean's room wouldn't allow her to give Dean any medication that wasn't previously cleared by him. That made it practically impossible to slip him a dose of strong poison.

If she didn't act soon, the older Winchester would escape from her clutches and she'd be forever haunted by this failure. The demon watched Dean sleep with a somber expression. She hated seeing him like this. So…relaxed, at peace. It made her feel even more like she hadn't succeeded.

But she would. In time.

* * *

"You're sure?"

Sam couldn't hide the relief in his voice. Doctor Birne shrugged and nodded. "Mr. Angus seems to be doing exceptionally well. I don't see any point in him remaining here. As long as you keep a close eye on him at home, he should be able to be discharged."

"Thanks, doc," Sam said quickly. "Really, thank you." He nearly stumbled down the hall to Dean's room. As he approached, however, a nurse was just leaving. She put a finger to her lips and gestured inside.

Sam dipped his head, understanding, and made his way into his brother's room. Dean was still asleep, lying on his back with his head angled towards the door and lips slightly parted. Sam moved to the seat at his bedside and sat.

He restlessly tapped his foot, anxious for Dean to wake up. But he simply waited, watching the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest. He sat patiently for awhile, just watching and awaiting the moment when the other hunter's eyes would open.

When they finally did, glazed with sleep, they met Sam's, who smiled.

"Guess what, man? You're getting out of here."

* * *

The blast of fresh air in Dean's face was everything he could have imagined. The minute he stepped out of the building, he stopped dead in his tracks and stood still. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin, feeling the wind.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

Dean nodded in response to his brother's remark, but was broken out of his trance as he noted the exhaustion in Sam's voice. He met the younger Winchester's gaze and gave him the smallest, reassuring smile before speaking.

"Let's go home, Sammy."

* * *

Dean didn't speak for the majority of the car ride. He was too busy either staring out the window at the landscape or admiring each and every inch of his precious Impala.

"Oh, Baby…" He'd murmured as they approached the vehicle. "It's been far too long." Sam had chuckled as he watched his brother lovingly stroke the hood of the car he'd put back together too many times to count.

"You're quiet." Sam remarked now as he glanced at Dean, who was entranced with the outside world whipping past them. The other hunter looked at him and gave him a small shrug. "You almost forget what the outdoors looked like while trapped in that bed?"

"Nearly," Dean answered honestly. "Let's just say that the window in my room didn't have a great view." Sam huffed out an amused breath, but didn't have the energy to offer another response.

The two brothers lapsed into silence once again.

* * *

Sam pushed open the door to the bunker and Dean nearly shoved him away in an attempt to get inside. "Calm down, bro. The place is gonna stay put, I promise." Dean didn't answer, simply barging down the stairwell.

Sam followed more slowly, rubbing a hand across his eyes. Dean watched him come down from where he was seated at the table, concern on his face. "Why don't you hit it, dude? You look like crap. When's the last time you slept?"

"Well?" Sam asked with a chuckle. "Days."

"Then go on," Dean insisted, nodding in the direction of his bedroom. "I'll be fine." Sam bit his lip, clearly unwilling to leave his brother's side. "Man, seriously. I'm not sick anymore. My injury is nearly healed. The doc discharged me for a reason."

Sam dipped his head slowly, still thinking. "Well, okay. If you need anything, just call me."

Dean shook his head as the younger Winchester disappeared down the hall at an exhausted pace. "Knucklehead just doesn't know when to stop…" He mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. He sat back in his chair and swung his feet up onto the table. He could use a beer. He hadn't had alcohol in days.

Dean stood and made his way into the kitchen, where he found not a single beer, can or bottle. He leaned against the counter, drumming his fingers on the top. He was itching to take a spin in the Impala. Sure, he just had, but that was in the passenger seat.

He wanted to sit behind the wheel again.

Sam was passed out, he wouldn't care if Dean took Baby to the liquor store and back. If anything, he would appreciate it. He seemed like he needed a drink just as much as Dean did. He would only be gone for ten minutes at most…not even long enough for him to leave a note.

In a matter of seconds, Dean was slipping into the driver's seat.

* * *

Dean's fingers gripped the wheel of the Impala, smoothly turning it onto the next road. He couldn't help but allow a satisfied grin to form on his face. He loved moments like these, driving alone…it was just him, Baby, and the stretch of asphalt lying before him.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean started violently before rolling his eyes. So much for him, Baby, and the open road. "Cass." He greeted his friend, who sat rigidly in the passenger seat.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine, considering." Dean answered without feeling. "Clearly the doc thinks I'm okay." They drove in silence for a time before Castiel spoke again.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"Liquor store…Cass, did you want something?" Dean didn't mean to sound rude, but he was really craving some time alone in the Impala.

"Yes. To see how you were doing."

"Like I said, I'm good."

Castiel nodded. "All right." He took a breath before speaking again. "Watch your back, Dean. The disease may be gone, but with Crowley behind it all, you can almost guarantee that you are most certainly not in the clear."

"Yeah, I figured that." Dean responded. "But thanks for letting me know. And Cass…" He stopped his friend before he could go.

"Thank you. Again."

* * *

Something was wrong.

Sam's eyes snapped open as an uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. He sat up suddenly and took a glance at the digital clock by his bed. It'd only been about twenty minutes since he'd passed out. He'd figured that he'd sleep for a week with the way he was feeling.

Apparently not.

Sam couldn't shake away the leaden feeling in his body. He shoved his feet back into his shoes and stumbled blindly into the hallway, his eyes so heavy that he could hardly see straight. "Dean?" He called out. No answer. He tried again.

Still, no answer.

Sam hurried into the main area where he'd last seen his brother. He checked Dean's room, the kitchen, the library, every place he could think of. Nothing. Panic wormed its way into his system and he dug his cell phone out of his back pocket, dialing Castiel without even thinking about where else Dean could be.

The angel picked up almost immediately. "Sam?"

"Cass." Sam choked out, breathing heavily. "It's Dean. I think he's missing. He's not anywhere in the bunker and—"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Sam furrowed his brows.

"Sam, calm down. Dean just went to the liquor store for a minute. He's fine, I just talked to him. Didn't he let you know he was leaving?"

"Uh…no, I was asleep, so I guess he couldn't. Sorry, Cass. I suppose I'm just paranoid about losing him after just getting him back." He laughed lightly. "I might sound crazy, but sometimes I'm worried I'm going to wake up and find out he's still comatose in that damned hospital."

"Doesn't sound crazy to me." Castiel remarked.

"Thanks, Cass." Sam said before disconnecting the call.

He hesitated before slipping the phone back in his pocket. Should he call Dean? Just in case? He nodded to himself and dialed his brother, pressing the phone to his ear. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Sam lost count after that. He tapped his foot aimlessly on the floor, willing his brother to pick up. The same answering message Dean had had on his personal cell met his ears.

" _This is Dean Winchester. Leave your name, number, and nightmare at the tone."_

His heart sunk. There was no use in calling any of Dean's other phones. He knew for a fact that he had just the one with him. He only took more than one when they went out on a hunt.

Dean not picking up wasn't a bad sign, Sam knew it. He'd be back soon if he only stopped by the liquor store.

All Sam had to do was wait.

* * *

Dean exited the liquor store, toting two six-packs of beer and a bottle of whiskey. He hadn't planned on buying the whiskey, but it had called to him from where it sat high on the shelf. It wasn't his fault that it did the same thing every time he went there.

Just as he was loading the beer and whiskey into the back seat of the Impala, a voice sounded from behind him.

"Hey, hot stuff." Dean shot a glance behind him before straightening and slamming the door. He peered in the direction the voice had come from. It spoke again. "I'm right here."

There was a glint of long blonde hair, and a pretty woman appeared before him, her brown eyes friendly. But there was something else in her gaze that Dean couldn't identify. His lips curled into a sly smirk and he looked her up and down appreciatively. Her appearance reminded him slightly of Jo Harvelle, he realized.

"Well, hello there." He greeted her, leaning against the side of the Impala.

She grinned a little before beckoning him with her index finger. She was slowly backing into the alley behind the liquor store. A small part of Dean told him to leave, but why would he want to? The chick was smoking.

Dean followed her into the alley, and she took his hand, leading him farther in. She shoved him roughly up against the wall and laced her hands behind his neck. "You are…"

"Irresistible?" He guessed, smirking.

"That's one way to describe it," She answered breathlessly. Her lips crashed into his with a passion that Dean hadn't felt in a long time. He sunk into the kiss without realizing it.

 _Dammit._ He thought. _I'm making out with another chick I don't know the name of._ She stroked her hand through his hair. _Aw, hell. Who gives a damn?_

Just as he was beginning to enjoy the kiss, though, something he wasn't anticipating happened. The girl moved her hands from his hair to his shoulders and pulled away. Her brown eyes met his green ones, and she smiled widely, an evil light shining from her gaze.

"I've got you, Deano."

Before he even had a chance to react, she dug her nails into his shoulders and pulled him forward swiftly. And then the back of his head exploded with agony as it smashed full-force into the brick wall behind him.

He wasn't even able to cry out in pain before he crumpled to ground and the world switched from spotty to pure black.

* * *

Sam was in full-on panic mode. It'd been more than an hour since Dean had supposedly left for the liquor store. Sure, maybe he'd decided to go to the bar, but Sam still fished out his cell phone and dialed Dean's number again.

Again, multiple rings. The same answering message he'd had for three years or more now. Sam's heart traveled up to his throat. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and shot to his feet, heading up the stairwell.

He was going after his brother, whether he had to walk or not.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

For a long while, Sam was worried that Dean had ditched him for some unknown reason. He stopped at the liquor store and questioned the cashier, who informed him that Dean had left about thirty minutes prior.

Sam stalked out the door and immediately froze in his tracks as the sight of the Impala sitting directly outside the liquor store met his eyes. He hadn't noticed it walking in. "Dammit…" He muttered, slapping his phone once again. "C'mon, Dean, _pick up."_ The first ring blared in his ears, and, at the very same time, Led Zeppelin began playing. Sam froze in his tracks and listened. The phone kept going, and so did the music.

It was near him, he could tell. Sam dropped his cell to his side, but allowed it to continue calling his brother. He _knew_ that song… _When the Levee Breaks._ It was the one that Dean had just set as his ringtone. He'd watched him do it.

"Dean!?" Sam exclaimed. No answer. " _Dean!"_

Suddenly, a soft groan sounded near him and Sam instinctively followed it. As he passed the alleyway leading behind the liquor store, he spotted a grown man crumpled to the ground. _Dean._ Sam raced to his brother's side and lifted him into a sitting position against the brick wall. "Man, what happened!?"

Dean's eyes were fogged over and it didn't look like he could easily meet Sam's gaze. He didn't offer an answer, and Sam snapped his fingers in front of his face, trying to break him out of his trance. "Hey. What happened?" He repeated, less forcefully.

Dean shook his head, as if he were trying to clear it. "Don't r'member…" He grumbled finally, his voice inexplicably slurred. "Head hur's…" He admitted after a pause. Sam studied his brother's condition thoroughly before finding a large, bloodied gash at the back of his head. He immediately cringed at the state of the injury. "S'mmy…" Dean mumbled, leaning back against the wall. His face looked positively green. "Th'nk 'm gonna be sick…"

"No." Sam said firmly. "No, you aren't. C'mon…" He slipped his hands beneath the other hunter's arms and hoisted him to his feet. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"N't again…" Dean complained dazedly as Sam practically dragged him to where the Impala sat on the side of the street.

"Too bad." Sam responded as he helped his brother into the passenger seat of the car. "Buckle up." He said before slamming the door and heading to the driver's side.

A few minutes into the ride, Dean yawned and Sam's eyes shot to where he slouched against the seat. His head lolled towards the window and Sam reached out to slap his brother's shoulder. "Snap out of it. You gotta stay awake."

"T'red…" Dean moaned quietly.

"You can sleep when the doc says it's okay." Sam replied. "For now, keep your eyes open, got it? Focus on something else." Dean gave him a look that clearly said, ' _Like what?'._ Sam didn't have a good answer.

By the time they reached the hospital, Dean's eyes were fluttering like crazy. But he'd powered through, and that was what mattered. Sam had jerked him into consciousness a couple of times, but he was simply glad that he'd managed to stay awake for the most part.

"Okay, man. We're here."

* * *

"Back in less than a day?"

Doctor Birne's voice was filled with amusement as he entered the room where Dean and Sam waited. Dean sat atop the exam table, while Sam had claimed the bench in the corner.

"Well, I can tell you this." Birne continued. "Mr. Angus, the wound you received at the back of your head was clearly obtained by rough contact with a solid surface…such as a wall, et cetera. The initial bash to your head caused you to receive a mild concussion. But, no worries…the symptoms should wear off eventually. Any memory loss will be restored. You should be good to go home again in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I want you to get some rest, Mr. Angus. It should help your head."

Dean nodded slowly, not having the energy to reply. His head still felt like there was a hammer pounding relentlessly against his skull, he couldn't shake the constant ringing in his ears, and every waking moment felt like he were living in a dream.

"Well, guess you'll be okay." Sam said after Birne left the room. Dean let out a heavy sigh, closed his eyes, and collapsed against the tiny pillow that lay at the head of the exam table. "You sure you still don't remember anything after leaving the liquor store?"

Dean was once again about to respond with a solid ' _no',_ but he hesitated before doing so as he recounted the earlier event. "Actually…" His eyes opened gradually. "Maybe I do remember something."

"What, Dean?"

"A girl…" Dean swallowed, creasing his brow. "Blonde…pretty…brown eyes…like Jo…" He turned his head to one side to meet Sam's gaze. His brother was studying him with a peculiar look on his face. "She coaxed me into that alleyway, and…she kissed me."

Sam raised his eyebrows and smirked a little. "And then?"

"She said…' _I've got you'…_ and…" Dean paused before continuing. "…and then she bashed my head into the wall. After that, all I remember is you calling my name."

Sam scrubbed a hand across his face before speaking, his tone exhausted. "It's the demon."

"The demon? The one that Crowley hired to kill me if the disease didn't work?" Sam nodded. "Well, she's doing her job, that's for sure." Another nod. Dean frowned at his brother, who was purposely avoiding his gaze. "Sammy, why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything that happened while I was down under?"

The younger Winchester exhaled sharply and closed his eyes. "You're right." He said quietly, his tone reluctant.

Dean pulled himself into a sitting position, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest skeptically. "Well, then, I'm all ears."

So Sam told him.

Everything this time. About the demon possessing him for the majority of the time, acquiring the disease himself…everything that he'd refused to reveal to him the last time he'd given him an explanation.

By the time he was finished, Dean's jaw was hanging open. After an awkward silence, he finally spoke. "And you were planning to fill me in on this…when, exactly?" Sam narrowed his eyes and Dean huffed out a breath. "Oh, I see. _Never._ Dammit, Sam. Why don't you ever tell me these things?"

"Don't talk like you don't do the same thing." Sam objected sharply. Dean raised his eyebrows before shrugging in consent, as if to say, ' _You're not wrong'._ "It's just…what we do." Sam remarked.

"Damn straight." Dean answered, no longer sounding sore. He once again laid back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

"Now go get yourself some Jell-O from the cafeteria and let me sleep."

* * *

She was hopeless. Demoralized. Completely and utterly defeated.

The demon paced back and forth in the cramped, seedy motel room she'd managed to scrounge up with the money left in her host's pocket. She traipsed to the dresser and slammed her palms against it, gripping the edge so tight that her knuckles turned white.

She turned her gaze to the mirror and met the wide, brown eyes of her vessel that were so foreign to her. She studied the lank blonde hair and skinny frame. It had just been a stroke of luck to find this specific host as Dean's Impala rumbled up to the liquor store in town.

The demon had still been possessing Corinne, who had been coincidentally been making a trip to the laundromat right next door as Dean showed up. Taking her chance, the demon smoked out of Corinne and possessed the nearest pretty girl exiting the laundromat.

Dean had fallen for it. Hard.

But then Sam saved his hide at the last minute. It was almost as if the Winchesters were immune to her each and every attempt. And it was becoming more and more aggravating by the second.

What had those two done to be so damned special? Why couldn't they just die and stay that way? So many times… _so many times_ they had bitten the dust and then were let off the hook. It was ludicrous, completely ludicrous.

The demon inhaled deeply before inching her gaze to the nightstand drawer beside the moth-eaten bed that the motel owners expected their guests to sleep in. It was in there. The one weapon that could _kill_ Dean Winchester, once and for all.

 _The First Blade._

She strode purposefully to the stand and yanked out the drawer to reveal the jawbone meticulously crafted into a lethal blade. The demon lifted it by the hilt and scrutinized it closely, her heart pounding as adrenaline flooded through her veins. A wicked smile formed on her lips.

Even just holding it, she knew. It was now or never. It was kill or be killed. Whatever the hell you wanted to call it, this was her last attempt. She was going to succeed…

Or die trying.

* * *

Dean sat motionless at the main table in the library, watching Sam as he pranced around the bunker, setting up hex begs and anti-possession charms and a bunch of other trinkets that Dean didn't have the patience to identify.

"You know, Sammy…" He mused as his brother checked the contents of what seemed like the hundredth hex bag. "I don't think you need to take all these precautions—"

"' _Don't need to take precautions'_?" Sam's voice was incredulous. "Dean, are you joking? Should I remind you about that damned demon _stabbing_ you and _bashing your head into a brick wall?"_

"I know…" Dean grumbled. He winced at the reminder, the back of his head still twinging with occasional pain. He'd managed to sleep for a few hours at the hospital, which helped, but it would be a couple days until he was completely back to normal.

"And you still say I shouldn't take precautions? You're too friggin' reckless, you know that, don't you?" Dean shrugged. He wasn't wrong. "Okay." Sam said as he finished diligently positioning the final hex bag. "I'm gonna hit the sack. You should too."

Dean nodded and watched his brother disappear down the hall to his bedroom. _Not just yet, Sammy._ The minute his gigantic back slipped from within eyeshot, Dean was immediately on his feet, scanning the room for each and every security trinket the younger Winchester had set up.

 _Sorry, Sam…_ He thought contritely as he set to work erasing his brother's attempts to protect him. _But I need to end this._ Once he was done, he lowered himself into the chair and sat back, resting his feet on the edge of the table.

"Okay. I'm ready. Come and get me, bitch."

* * *

"Last dose from this one, my king…"

Lola purred as she prepared the syringe filled to the brim with blood. "I'll head out tonight to collect another prize, I promise."

"Sounds peachy, love." Crowley responded. He reached out desperately for the blood and smiled as the other demon placed it obediently in his waiting palms.

His shaky hands prepared the needle above his forearm and he squeezed his eyes shut in pleasure as he pressed down on the plunger. The blood rushed through his veins. It triggered so many emotions…emotions he couldn't identify as they coursed through him.

"How do you feel, your Majesty?" Lola murmured in his ear, her hands working into his back as she massaged between his shoulderblades.

"I feel… _brilliant."_ And he did. For once, he cherished the best feelings that the human blood delivered to him. Just for a moment, he didn't care about his failure with Dean…he didn't care about the looming threat of Abaddon…he didn't care about anything, for just a few precious minutes.

 _This_ was his addiction.

* * *

Castiel stared at his reflection in the mirror. He stood in front of the dresser in one of the many motel rooms he'd been staying in for the past few days. He examined the body of Jimmy Novak that he had long since claimed. The messy dark hair and bright blue eyes he now considered his own.

Cass still had moments where he wondered what Jimmy Novak and his family's lives would've been like if he had given Jimmy's back. Where would he be? So much could change just due to one little adjustment.

And of course, that drove the thought to what Heaven would think of him if he hadn't taken the Winchester's side so many times in a row. Would he still stand with Metatron? Maybe he wouldn't have fallen for the Scribe's lies if he hadn't messed so much with humanity. That way the Fall would have never occurred.

Amriel's words suddenly flashed in his brain…

 _You prioritize any human above your own brethren. It's disgraceful._

Was it, really? Humanity, was, after all, what all angels in the old days strived to protect. Now, with Metatron in charge, it was different. Had he really polluted all of his followers' minds into thinking that humankind was tainted, foul, and corrupt.

Eventually Cass would have to choose. Humans or angels. Now, sadly, there really was no in-between. He didn't know the answer yet. But there was one thing he did know…

Castiel was going to defeat Metatron. Whether he did so as a soldier or as a leader.

* * *

It was time.

The demon sensed it in her bones as she stood outside the bunker door, listening for noises within. There was nothing. She closed her eyes and felt herself travel through the door and across the threshold.

When she opened them again, she stood atop the stairwell leading down to the bunker's library. She scanned the area, double-checking for last minute devil's traps, hex bags, and any other anti-demon trinkets.

She came back with nothing.

A sinister smile formed on her lips, and she gripped the hilt of the First Blade tighter. She felt the power from it radiating through her. Sure, she didn't have the Mark. But you only need that factor to kill a Knight of Hell.

A pure mortal, even Dean Winchester, could be killed with just a single stab wound to the heart.

Her eyes, still scouring the area, found Dean himself with his feet up on the large table at the center of the library. His chin dropped towards his chest, which rose and fell steadily in sleep. Sam was nowhere to be seen. She stalked down the stairs as if she were on pins and needles, careful not to make a single sound.

His slumbering form showed no sign of stirring as she approached. His eyelids twitched as if he were dreaming, and the demon slowly slipped the First Blade from where she had it stowed inside her jacket. Her fingers were deathly white as she clutched it as hard as she possibly could. She was vaguely surprised that Dean didn't wake to the frantic hammering of her heart, whose sound echoed thunderously in her ears.

The demon hesitated with the First Blade readied in her hand. She observed the man before her with a softness in her gaze. He was handsome, she realized. She'd never really thought about it before. It'd be a shame to waste such a pretty face. In a few short seconds, he'd be lying lifeless on the floor. Pity, but it was necessary, for both her and her King's satisfaction. Even Crowley wouldn't expect her to go against his orders, he would eventually come to appreciate her decision.

She took a deep inhalation, closed her eyes, and exhaled through her nose, preparing for the moment she had been waiting for. It felt like she'd been waiting for years, no matter how long it had actually been.

Everything she'd been through flitted through her mind…

Possessing Gina Sullett, capturing Sam before eventually claiming his body as her own. Finishing the case of the Nephilim…watching Dean slowly become weaker and weaker until he ultimately gave into the illness…

Experiencing the exact same thoughts and feelings that Sam did as he watched his brother succumb to ' _Mortem per somniatis'_ without knowing what was really going on inside Dean's body.

Becoming impatient with the amount of time the disease was taking to claim its victim…eventually going against Crowley's orders and deciding to rid the world of Dean Winchester with a much more classic solution… _stabbing._

Watching Dean power through, even while comatose. Seeing the connection Corinne Acker developed with him…and mocking it. Feeling the agony as Sam attempted to exorcise her…forcing Sam to catch the disease himself.

Seeing the angel Castiel slowly succeed in collect the ingredients to cure Dean through Sam's eyes. Finally being forced from the younger Winchester's body as the angel burned off the binding lock he'd placed on him.

Taking over Corinne, attempting another murder of Dean after he woke up. Failing again. So many failures…so many thoughts…so many _feelings._

It had been overwhelming. It was time to end everything she'd gone through…leave it all in the past and forget about it once and for all.

"Goodbye, Dean Winchester." She crooned before preparing the Blade. In a split second, she was bringing it down, lightning fast, aimed towards the hunter's heart.

But what happened next was unexpected.

Dean's eyes flew open just seconds before the tip of the Blade made contact with his skin, and he lunged to the side, his foot lashing out. Before the demon could rationally understand what was happening, her feet flew out from under her and she was toppling to the floor.

She didn't have a chance to get ahold of herself before Dean stood over her and kicked the First Blade from her reach. He slammed his foot onto the small of her back, preventing her from getting up. "Did you _really_ think it would be so easy to get in here?" He chuckled darkly and bent down, retrieving the First Blade from where it lay pathetically on the ground.

Both of them felt the sudden change in the room as Dean's skin came in contact with the hilt of the Blade. A chill traveled through him and his eyes closed. The demon stared in shock as the Mark on his arm glowed with an eerie golden light.

Dean inhaled heavily and his eyes opened, smoldering with a malevolent bloodlust like the demon, in all her years, dead or alive, had never seen before. His eyes stared down at her from where she lay helplessly on the floor.

And he simply gazed at her. Utterly calm. Then it happened.

He grabbed ahold of the collar of her jacket and lifted her into the air with barely an effort. His green eyes still stared into hers with that uncanny calm.

"Rot in hell, bitch." He growled before not even hesitating to detach her head from the rest of her body. The corpse crumpled to the ground and he threw the head down along with it. He felt no remorse for the innocent girl who had been trapped inside the demon. Dean dropped to his knees, clutching the bloodied First Blade in his fist.

Just like in his nightmare.

Sam arrived soon after, awakened by the sudden chaos sounding from the struggle between the demon and Dean. As he stumbled into the library, half-asleep, he found Dean in a kneeling position, clutching what looked like the jawbone of an animal. His hands shook. His eyes stared blankly in front of him.

 _The First Blade._ Sam realized.

The younger Winchester took in the scene before him. The decapitated body, the blood, the trancelike state his brother seemed to be trapped in.

"Dean? Dean. Hey, it's over. She's dead."

His brother's eyes slid to the Blade. The Mark on his arm still burned gold. His lips curled into a snarl, making him seem less than human. Sam's heart traveled up his throat.

"Drop the Blade, Dean." The other hunter didn't appear to hear him. If he had, he showed no indication of letting go. "Dean!" Finally, Dean seemed to realize his brother's presence. A flicker of humanity sidled across his face and he met Sam's gaze. "Drop the Blade." Sam said again.

Dean uncurled his hand from the hilt and the First Blade dropped from his grasp. The Mark went back to normal, and Dean narrowed his eyes before drawing his trembling hand to his chest.

It was over.


	27. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

So, after, Dean's behavior gradually came back to normal. Sam made certain to keep the First Blade a good distance away from his brother at all times. The older Winchester barely seemed to notice the Blade's absence.

The two sat at the library table, right where it had happened. Dean didn't act at all affected by that fact. He simply sat in the same chair where he had nearly died and sipped at a glass of strong whiskey.

"So…now what?" Sam broke the silence that had formed between them the past couple of days. Dean looked up at him in confusion and raised his eyebrows. "What do we do about the Blade? And Abaddon?"

"We get ahold of King Douchebag." Dean responded, sounding a lot more like his old self. "He'll tell us what to do next."

"Are you sure, Dean?" Sam was mildly surprised that his brother failed to recognize what Crowley had attempted to do to him. "With everything Crowley's done the past few weeks…"

"Yeah, and I say screw it." Dean snapped. "Taking out that red-headed bitch is the first thing on our to-do list. I can deal with Crowley later."

Sam narrowed his eyes before nodding in agreement. "And when are we going to deal with you, Dean?"

"The hell you talking about?" Dean inquired.

"The Mark. The Blade. Everything."

Dean took another gulp of his whiskey and shot a quick glance to where the demon's body had previously lain. He swallowed harshly and clenched his fist before answering his brother. "I'll keep a handle it." Neither of them said a word after that, but they both knew…

He was lying.

* * *

Yay! I finally finished! I hope you all enjoyed this book, it's been a VERY long journey. Feel free to shoot me a PM if you have any questions. I wrote this from 8th grade-10th grade, so I don't think it's the absolute best it could be.

I'll be going through and replacing some of the earlier chapters with some changes I've made while rereading, nothing big, but just grammatical checks and changing little facts to make it more coherent. Thanks again for sticking with me, guys!


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